VLsJ 


THB 


LAST  LEAF  FROM  SUNNY  SIDE. 


BT 


H.  TRUSTA, 


AUTHOR  OF  "  PEEP  AT  NUMBER  PITS,"  "  TELL-TAI*," 
"SUNNY-SIDE,"  ETC.,   ETC. 


WITH 


A  MEMORIAL  OF  THE  AUTHOR, 


AUSTIN  PHELPS. 


88T8HTEKNTH  THOUSAND. 


BOSTON- 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY 
1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  j-ear  1853,  by 

Ausm  FHELPS, 
fc  the  Cta-k's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 


A  JID o  v  H R :   J.  r>.  PIAO 
Sttruotyper  ana  l'riD'«r. 


CONTENTS. 


MEMORIAL, 5 

THE  PURITAN  FAMILY. 

I.     The  Landing, 115 

II.     Neighbors, 121 

III.  Winter  in  the  '  Wildernesse,' 127 

IV.  The  Puritan  Home, 135 

V.    The  Prayer  of  Faith, 144 

VI.     Mercy  Whitman, 152 

VII.    Hetty  in  Trouble, 160 

VIIL    Cloven  Feet, 170 

IX.    A  Hint, 174 

X.    The  Escape, 179 

XL    Life  in  Death, 18« 

XII.     The  Retrospect, 194 

THE  CLOUDY  MORNING, '. 197 

THE  COUNTRY  COUSINS. 

I.     The  Start 235 

II.    The  Arrival 240 


IT  CONTENTS. 

HI.    The  Next  Morning, 245 

IV.    Seeking  Places, 251 

V.    Ruth's  Introduction, ...  257 

VI.    Miss  Darling, 263 

VIL    Money  and  Dress, 269 

Vm.    A  Chapter  of  Troubles 276 

IX.    A  Change 282 

X.    Fruits, 287 

XI.    A  Tea  Visit, 291 

XII.    How  much  ought  I  to  do  ? 295 

XTIT.    How  much  shall  I  give  ? 310 

XIV.  Another  Change, 321 

XV.  The  Return  Home 324 

THE  NIGHT  AFTEB  CHRISTMAS, 328 


MEMORIAL, 


IT  is  related  of  an  eminent  Puritan  Divine, 
that,  but  a  few  hours  before  his  death,  he  called 
for  a  large  collection  of  manuscripts,  containing 
the  most  valuable  records  of  his  life,  and  directed 
that  they  should  be  burned  in  his  presence.  The 
Christian  world  have  sympathized  with  his  bi- 
ographer in  lamenting  the  irreparable  loss.  Yet, 
upon  second  thought,  we  cannot  but  revere  hi> 
memory  the  more  for  that  single  act.  We  can 
scarcely  say  that  we  would  part  with  it,  even  for 
the  recovery  of  the  lost  treasure.  It  is  the  very 
nature  of  some  of  the  most  noble  virtues,  to  seek 
concealment.  They  cannot  but  choose  to  be  un- 
seen. They  come  not  into  the  world  conscious  of 
the  high  mission  they  fulfil ;  they  come  among  us, 
eimply  to  exist.  They  ask  but  the  privilege  of 
being.  They  perform  their  mission  in  ignorance 
of  its  import.  They  are  all  unconscious  of  the 
bland  enchantment  which  they  breathe  around 
them  —  with  which  the  very  atmosphere  of  their 
presence  is  laden.  When  their  charm  is  felt,  and 
1* 


6  MEMORIAL. 

the  world  throngs  around  them,  as  it  will,  to  make 
obeisance  to  them,  they  hide  themselves  beneath 
the  drooping  wings  of  evening,  and  look  with  an 
eye  of  maidenly  reproach,  on  him  who  would  bring 
them  forth  to  the  broad  day  to  be  seen  of  men. 

Such  virtues  formed  in  part  the  character  of  her 
of  whose  life  it  is  proposed  here  to  give  a  simple 
narrative — and  they  have  laid  restraint  upon  the 
effort.  Her  strictly  private  journal,  in  which  she 
had  recorded  the  details  of  her  religious  history 
for  the  last  twenty  years  of  her  life,  she  commit- 
ted in  her  last  hours  to  the  writer  of  these  pages, 
in  solemn  trust  that  he  should  give  it  to  the  flames 
without  inspection  of  its  contents  by  any  human 
eye.  The  most  valuable  records  for  the  present 
purpose  are  thus  removed  beyond  our  reach.  The 
epirit  of  that  trust  has  been  extended  also  to  many 
fragmentary  records  that  remained.  It  is  neces- 
sarily, therefore,  but  a  broken  narrative  that  ia 
here  offered  as  a  memorial  of  her. 

Mus.  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  was  born 
in  Andover,  Massachusetts,  on  the  thirteenth  of 
August,  1815.  She  was  the  fifth  child  of  Profes- 
sor Moses  Stuart,  and  the  eldest  of  his  daughters, 
with  the  exception  of  one  who  died  in  childhood. 
Her  ancestry  in  the  maternal  line,  she  was  accus- 
tomed with  pleasure  to  trace  back  to  the  family  oi 


MEMORIAL.  7 

"  Old  Governor  Winthrop."  The  chief  peculiari- 
ties of  her  natural  temperament  she  inherited  from 
her  father,  whom  in  many  other  respects  she 
strongly  resembled.  His  character  could  hardly 
fail  to  exercise  a  formative  influence,  on  that  of  a 
child  even  less  positively  disposed  than  she  to  sym- 
pathize with  it.  Among  her  earliest  recollections 
were  those  of  her  father's  severe  self-discipline. 
In  a  paper  found  among  her  manuscripts  since  her 
decease,  in  which  she  had  recorded  some  reminis- 
cences of  her  childhood,  the  first  record  is  the  fol- 
lowing :  "  One  thing  made  a  powerful  impression 
on  me  ;  it  was  my  waking  early  on  cold  winter 
mornings,  and  looking  from  my  western  window 
into  the  wood-house  chamber.  There  was  father, 
sawing  wood  by  the  dim  light  of  his  lantern.  I 
used  to  wonder,  as  I  lay  snug  in  bed,  dreading  to 
hear  '  the  first  bell,'  how  father  could  force  himself 
out  so  early  when  it  was  so  cold  and  so  dark,  to 
saw  wofxL  When  I  grew  older,  and  learned  that 
he  often  did  this  after  a  wakeful  night  full  of  toss- 
ings  to  and  fro,  with  snatches  of  unquiet  and 
dreamy  sleep,  and  when  I  saw  him  coming  in  to 
the  breakfast-table  exhausted  and  nervous,  it  taught 
me  how  high  a  price  he  set  upon  those  golden 
morning  hours." 

The  scene  from   that  '  western  window,'  with 
many  others  like  it,  affected  her  through  life.    She 


8  MEMORIAL. 

learned  to  cherish  a  more  than  filial  reverence  for 
her  father's  character.  It  roused  her;  it  stimula- 
ted her  to  effort;  it  gave  definiteness  to  her 
objects  of  effort ;  it  sustained  the  steadiness  of 
her  exertions ;  its  influence  was  exhibited  even  more 
distinctly  than  before,  in  the  last  year  of  her 
life  ;  and  in  her  last  hours,  her  very  features  as- 
sumed a  striking  resemblance  to  his. 

The  predominance  of  her  nervous  system  over 
every  other  part  of  her  physical  nature,  gave  an 
early  and  positive  development  to  all  her  natural 
tastes  and  traits  of  character.  The  movements 
of  her  mind  were  naturally  rapid,  and  strongly 
marked,  and  yet  accompanied  with  very  great  and 
often  excessive  delicacy  of  sensibility.  Her  tem- 
perament favored  the  formation  of  a  vigorous  yet 
feminine  character. 

Very  early  in  life,  she  manifested  a  keen  sensi- 
tiveness to  forms  of  beauty,  both  in  nature  and  in 
art.  The  natural  scenery  at  Andover  had  no 
small  influence  in  forming  her  mental  habits.  Her 
letters  to  her  young  correspondents  abound  with 
enthusiastic  expressions  of  her  fondness  for  the 
hills  and  rocks,  and  "  woody  by-roads,"  and  "speak- 
ing elms,"  and  more  than  all,  the  "  gorgeous  sun- 
gets,"  in  the  midst  of  which  her  childhood  was 
passed.  In  one  of  her  little  Sabbath  school  books, 
6he  has  mirrored  forth  the  feelings  of  her  youthful 


MEMORIAL.  9 

heart  on  a  survey  of  Andover  Hill  after  a  sleet- 
etorm  ;  when  the  elm-trees  "  were  cased  in  thous- 
ands of  glittering  icicles,"  and  "  bending  beneath 
the  weight  of  their  shining  armor,  branch  bore 
down  upon  branch,  forming  what  seemed  a  solid 
roof  of  diamonds  over  the  path."  "  To  her  awe- 
struck mind,  it  seemed  as  if  God  dwelt  in  that 
shining  roof  above  her ;  that  she  could  see  Him 
and  hear  Him."  The  setting  of  the  sun  associated 
itself  so  strongly  with  her  earliest  conceptions  of 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  that  it  became  her 
choicest  emblem  of  that  truth.  She  never  wearied 
of  watching  the  infinite  diversity  of  sunset  pic- 
tures, as  seen  from  her  favorite  'western  window.' 
She  possessed,  naturally,  a  passionate  taste  for 
painting  and  statuary.  The  first  of  these  was 
her  favorite  recreation  through  life  ;  and  in  her 
later  years,  such  was  the  pleasure  she  derived 
from  it,  that  it  became  a  part  of  her  daily  occu- 
pation. The  first  serious  enthusiasm  which  she 
felt,  as  a  child,  in  any  plans  for  mature  life,  was 
awakened  by  the  purpose  which  she  at  one  time 
entertained,  of  devoting  herself  to  the  labors  of 
this  art.  She  never  permitted  an  opportunity  to 
go  by  unimproved,  of  visiting  collections  of  the 
works  of  great  artists.  The  occasion  of  her  an- 
nual visit  to  the  Gallery  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum, 
was  for  many  years  one  of  her  happiest  anniver- 


10  MEMORIAL. 

saries.  She  often  chose,  in  preference  to  all 
others,  that  mode  of  spending  the  anniversary  of 
her  marriage.  It  was  one  motive  to  the  fatal  ex- 
ertions she  made  during  the  last  year  of  her  life, 
that  she  might  earn  with  her  own  pen  the  means 
of  visiting  the  repositories  of  Art  in  the  Old 
World.  Although  neither  her  own  proficiency  in 
painting,  nor  her  limited  means  of  gratifying  her 
taste  by  the  labors  of  others,  enabled  her  to 
gather  around  her  much  that  would  be  valued  by 
a  critic,  yet  the  desolateness  of  the  home  she  has 
left  is  relieved  by  the  evidences  of  her  taste,  with 
which  it  is  filled.  To  the  ear  of  affection,  its  si- 
lent walls  are  eloquent  in  the  thoughts  they 
breathe  of  her. 

She  developed  also,  in  early  life,  a  taste  for 
music ;  and  through  life  was  often  dependent  on  its 
power  to  soothe  her  agitated  mind,  or  to  ele  fate 
her  depressed  spirits.  Her  sensitiveness  to  it 
was  attested  by  her  speechless  struggling  Avith 
suppressed  emotion,  and  the  tears  which  she  could 
not  suppress,  when  for  the  first  time  she  listened 
to  the  Seventh  Symphony  of  Beethoven.  Her 
imagination  often  disturbed  her  sleep  with  dreams 
of  harmony,  from  which  she  would  awake  in 
tears,  and  which  she  could  not  describe  but  in 
terms  of  -rapture.  So  lasting  were  the  impres- 
fcions  of  some  of  these  dreams,  that  they  would 


MEMORIAL.  11 

not  leave  her  until  she  had  committed  a  record  of 
them  to  paper. 

Her  taste  for  the  fine  arts,  even  before  she 
seemed  to  herself  to  possess  any  religious  princi- 
ple, had  mellowed  and  refined  her  character ;  and 
it  is  the  more  interesting  to  her  friends  in  their 
remembrances  of  her,  because  of  its  association 
with  certain  passages  in  her  religious  experience, 
•which  will  be  noticed  in  the  sequel.  Very  closely 
allied  with  it  in  her  nature,  was  her  nice  sense  of 
honor.  She  manifested  this  early  and  always. 
Without  a  knowledge  of  her  sensitiveness  in  this 
respect,  a  person  could  not  understand  her  char- 
acter. By  nature,  her  conscience  found  its  most 
frequent,  if  not  its  strongest,  development,  in  a 
regard  for  the  honorable  and  magnanimous.  Her 
sense  of  right  appeared  to  be  blended  with  her 
sense  of  the  noble.  Her  most  intimate  friends 
find  it  most  difficult  to  conceive  of  her  as  cherish- 
ing a  mean  sentiment.  The  chosen  friend  of  her 
childhood  writes :  '•  I  cannot  remember  a  single 
instance  in  which  I  thought  she  ever  intended  to 
deceive ;  and  she  "ever  said  or  did  a  thing  for 
display."  Her  contempt  of  dishonorable  conduct 
in  others  was  prompt  and  keen,  and  fearless  in 
expression.  Yet  it  was  one  of  the  singular  evi- 
dences of  the  nobleness  of  her  own  nature,  that 
she  was  nevei  quick  to  discern  this  defect  in  the 


12  MEMORIAL. 

conduct  of  others.  It  was  often  fascinating  to 
observe  the  childlike  artlessness,  with  which  she 
would  attribute  to  others  honorable  motives,  of 
actions  the  interpretation  of  which,  as  the  world 
would  give  it,  she  seemed  unable  to  understand. 

As  respects  severe  studies,  her  early  tastes  in« 
clined  to  the  study  of  mental  philosophy  and  the 
mathematics.  Her  love  of  natural  objects  does 
not  seem  to  have  produced  any  fondness  for  natu- 
ral science.  Singular  as  it  may  appear,  she  had 
none  of  her  father's  predilection  for  the  study  of 
languages ;  it  was  rather  disagreeable  to  her. 
Her  favorite  department  in  childhood  was  that  of 
the  "  belles  lettres ; "  and  in  this,  her  childhood 
was  marked  by  uncommon  mental  activity.  She 
very  early  exhibited  a  desire  to  originate  train* 
of  thought,  rather  than  to  accumulate  the  trea- 
sures of  others ;  and  this  was  characteristic  of 
her  mental  habits  to  the  end  of  life. 

As  early  as  at  the  age  of  ten  years,  she  devel- 
oped a  tact  in  narrative  composition.  She  was 
accustomed  at  that  period,  to  amuse  the  domestics 
of  the  family  and  their  friends,  with  her  extempo- 
raneous stories  ;  and  among  the  relics  of  her  writ- 
ings at  that  time,  are  found  little  volumes  of  nar- 
ratives which  she  composed  for  the  entertainment 
of  her  younger  sisters.  Her  own  earliest  recol- 
lections of  her  mental  history,  were  those  of  the 


MEMORIAL.  13 

taks  she  wrote,  or  of  the  materials  for  them 
which  she  was  constantly  inventing  and  arranging 
in  her  mind. 

Her  natural  temperament  was  not  well  fitted  to 
produce  a  life  of  equable  enjoyment.  Even  in 
childhood,  she  seems  to  have  been  subject  to  fluc- 
tuations of  hope  and  despondency.  She  did  not 
herself  regard  her  youth  as  the  happiest  portion 
of  her  life.  It  was  not,  all  things  considered,  an 
unhappy  period ;  it  could  not  well  have  been  so, 
in  the  midst  of  such  a  home  as  it  was  her  privi- 
lege to  enjoy.  She  often  referred  to  it  in  later 
life,  with  enthusiastic  gratitude  for  the  parental 
influences  which  were  at  once  so  vigorous  and  yet 
so  genial.  The  affections  of  her  childhood  never 
decayed ;  they  rather  grew  with  her  growth  and 
strengthened  with  her  strength.  Still,  such  was 
the  quickness  and  power  of  her  sensibilities,  that 
whatever  moved  her,  stirred  the  depths  of  her 
soul.  She  lived  in  a  world  of  emotion.  Any  oc- 
casion of  despondency  took  a  strong  hold  upon 
her.  She  describes  herself,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend, 
as  having  been  by  nature  wild  and  wayward  and 
impetuous  in  her  feelings,  yet  too  sensitive  to  ut- 
ter them  often  to  any  human  being.  An  instinct 
which  she  could  not  resist  impelled  her  to  hold 
herself  in  reserve  from  her  nearest  friends.  So 
2 


14  MEMORIAL. 

far  as  concerns  expression  of  her  inner  life,  she 
passed  the  early  periods  of  her  youth  in  a  soli- 
tude which  is  not  very  common  even  to  sensitive 
natures.  This  she  afterwards  regarded  as  a  great 
misfortune.  Especially  in  its  effects  upon  her 
tubsequent  religious  experience,  it  seemed  to  her 
the  occasion  of  irreparable  evils.  In  a  letter 
written  a  few  years  ago,  to  a  young  friend  who 
was  meditating  a  public  profession  of  religion, 
she  remarks,  with  a  severity  in  her  judgment  of 
herself  which  at  that  time  had  long  been  habitual 
with  her :  "  I  wish  I  could  say  anything  to  make 
you  see  how  deeply  I  regret  having  indulged  my 
natural  reserve  on  religious  subjects  earlier  in 
life.  It  has  made  my  Christian  character  one- 
sided, and  shut  me  out  from  many  avenues  of  in- 
fluence. Do  not  start  in  your  Christian  course 
with  reserve  and  half-revealings.  Speak  —  speak 
out,  openly,  fully,  honestly.  Let  it  be  called  en- 
thusiasm, or  cant,  or  what  it  may.  I  wish  you 
could  feel  the  importance  of  this,  as  I  do."  "  You 
love  the  Saviour,  and  why  should  you  hesitate  to 
gpeak  of  Him  ?" 

It  was  indeed  unfortunate,  that  a  mind  so  active 
as  hers,  should,  from  the  very  first  of  its  earnest 
workings,  have  been  so  constantly  introverted 
upon  itself.  As  might  have  been  expected,  her 
early  habits  of  religious  feeling  became  morbid. 


MEMORIAL.  15 

and  tended  strongly  to  bind  her  thoughts  to  some 
one  narrow  circle.  The  central  object  in  that 
circle  was,  Death.  Her  own  record  on  this  point 
will  best  explain  it.  On  a  stray  leaf  found  among 
her  papers,  she  has  written  as  follows  :  "  All  my 
early  religious  emotions  were  concentrated  on  the 
one  thought  of  death.  I  used  to  think  much  about 
it.  It  gave  a  melancholy  direction  to  all  my 
childish  feelings.  It  was  a  naked  sword  ever 
hanging  over  me  by  a  hair.  My  nurse  used  to 
take  me  to  almost  all  the  funerals  that  took  place 
in  the  village,  and  at  last  I  was  fond  of  going  to 
them ;  not  because  death  had  become  any  less 
terrible,  but  because  there  was  something  in  the 
exciting  stir  of  so  strong  an  emotion  as  deep 
grief,  which  suited  my  nature.  I  loved  to  have 
my  feelings  powerfully  worked  upon ;  and  in  that 
still  village  no  agent  could  do  this  like  death." 
"  I  can  remember,  as  far  back  as  when  I  was  but 
three  years  old,  and  from  that  time  onward,  hav- 
ing again  and  again  cried  myself  to  sleep,  because 
I  must  some  time  or  other  see  my  mother  die.* 
The  death  of  her  mother  was  the  affliction  which, 
in  the  prospect,  often  clouded  her  path,  but  from 
which  God  took  her  away.  Indeed,  the  invalid 
life  of  her  mother,  who  for  many  years  was  sup- 
posed to  be  on  the  borders  of  the  grave,  was  prob- 
ably the  chief,  if  not  the  only,  original  cause  of 


16  MEMORIAL. 

the  fascination  which  death  acquired  in  the  mind 
of  the  daughter. 

The  morbid  association  of  her  childish  feelings 
•with  death,  was  never  wholly  broken  up.  In  ma- 
ture life,  she  often  could  not  withstand  the  gloom 
with  which  thoughts  of  death  oppressed  her. 
Long  after  she  had  learned  to  think  and  speak  of 
her  own  death  with  a  calm  hopefulness,  she  could 
not  meet  with  composure  the  death  of  friends. 
Their  lifeless  remains  —  the  bier  —  the  pall  — 
the  tolling  bell  —  the  slow  procession  —  the  grave 
—  each,  and  all,  were  intensely  painful  to  her. 
They  seemed  to  realize  the  idea  of  death  to  her 
physical  senses.  They  formed  permanent  scenes 
in  her  mind's  eye,  remaining  sometimes  for  weeks, 
and  even  months.  She  has  often  refrained  from 
sleeping  for  many  hours  of  a  night,  because  her 
imagination  was  so  much  more  painfully  active  in 
the  creation  of  such  scenes  in  her  dreams,  than 
in  her  waking  thoughts. 

Her  early  experience  in  this  respect,  was  one 
of  the  occasions  of  her  subsequent  interest  in  the 
composition  of  books  for  children.  It  was  her 
conviction,  that  much  of  our  Sabbath  School  lit- 
erature gives  an  unnatural  prominence  to  the 
single  idea  of  human  mortality.  This  appeared 
to  her  to  be  too  often  the  only  impressive  thought, 
•which  a  book  was  designed  to  convey ;  and  in 


MEMORIAL.  17 

many  instances,  she  thought  the  legitimate  effect 
of  much  that  was  written  for  the  instruction  of 
children,  was  to  associate  in  their  minds  early 
piety  with  the  necessity  of  an  early  death.  She 
believed  this  to  be  unnatural.  Yet,  her  own  ex- 
perience in  the  composition  of  books  for  the 
young,  taught  her  how  easily  a  writer  may  be 
tempted  into  this  error  by  the  prospect  of  artistic 
effect.  She  gave  to  this  subject  much  thought,  and 
has  recorded  briefly  the  result,  in  her  own  convic- 
tion that  "  there  is  something  wrong  —  morbidly 
precocious,  in  the  mind  of  that  child  whose 
thoughts  are  all  colored  by  the  idea  of  dying." 
"  The  strongest  appeals  to  the  hearts  of  the  young," 
she  adds,  "  cannot  be  made  by  trying  to  force  con- 
stantly upon  them  the  thought  that  they  are  mor- 
tal. You  cannot  produce  thus,  more  than  a  mo- 
mentary good  impression  ;  it  is  crossing  nature." 
She  did  not  believe  any  such  "  crossing "  of 
"na.ure"  to  be  necessary  to  an  impression  of  re- 
ligious truth  on  young  minds.  She  has  frequently 
spoken  of  the  abundance  of  materials  for  impres- 
sion, which  are  furnished  by  the  simple  facts  of 
Scriptural  truth,  and  which,  as  a  whole,  are  emi- 
nently cheering  in  their  influence.  The  vigorous 
system  of  religious  doctrine  with  which  she  sym- 
pathized, left  no  apology,  as  she  thought,  for  an 
unnatural  protrusion  of  the  image  of  death,  in  the 
2* 


18  MEMORIAL. 

representations  of  religion  which  are  made  to 
children.  This  view  led  her  to  propose  to  herself 
as  the  object  of  all  that  she  wrote  for  Sabbath 
Schools,  the  simple  and  natural  portraiture  of  re- 
ligious principle  as  it  is  in  life,  rather  than  as  it  is 
in  death. 

AT  the  age  of  sixteen,  she  left  her  father's  house 
to  enter  the  Mount  Vernon  school,  an  institution 
then  existing  in  Boston,  under  the  care  of  Rev. 
Jacob  Abbott,  in  whose  family  she  resided  for  the 
greater  part  of  two  years.  This  period  was  ex- 
ceedingly fruitful  of  events  which  affected  her 
whole  character.  The  secluded  life  she  had  pre- 
Tiously  led,  rendered  her  transition  to  a  lai-je  city 
a  great  event.  New  scenes,  the  formation  of  new 
acquaintances,  and  subjection  to  a  new  discipline, 
could  not  but  impress  a  nature  so  susceptible  as 
hers.  She  ever  afterwards  cherished  a  grateful 
recollection  of  the  skill  and  vigilance,  with  which 
Mr.  Abbott  at  once  checked  and  stimulated  the 
development  of  her  hitherto  unformed  character. 
Her  mind  now  unfolded  itself  rapidly,  and  with 
increased  vigor  of  tone  ;  her  tastes  matured  ;  and 
especially  did  her  predilection  for  narrative  writ- 
ing derive  advantage,  from  her  intercourse  with 
•ne  Avho  was  himself  a  writer  of  such  rare  excel- 
lence in  that  style  of  composition.  It  was  under 


MEMORIAL.  19 

his  direction,  that  her  first  attempts  were  made  in 
writing  for  the  press.  They  were  in  the  form  of 
brief  articles  for  a  Religious  Magazine  of  which 
he  was  at  that  time  the  Editor.  Those  of  her 
companions  at  the  Mt.  Vernon  School  who  still 
survive,  will  remember  some  of  the  contributions 
which  she  made  to  their  amusement,  under  the 
signature  of  "  H.  Trusta," — the  same  that  she  ap- 
pended, twenty  years  later,  to  "  The  Sunny  Side." 
Her  highest  and  almost  only  ambition  in  her  first 
efforts,  was  to  write  something  that  should  attract 
the  notice  of  her  father.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
any  subsequent  success  ever  gave  her  keener 
pleasure,  than  she  felt  when  she  first  received  from 
his  lips  the  hearty  "  Well  done,"  after  the  publi- 
cation of  one  of  her  simple  stories.  But  a  few 
weeks  before  she  went  to  join  him  in  Heaven,  she 
recalled  with  filial  pride,  the  occasion,  the  hour, 
the  trepidation  she  felt,  the  quick  look  of  surprise 
followed  by  the  smile  on  her  father's  face,  when 
she  put  into  his  hands  the  few  small  bills  she  had 
just  received  as  a  remuneration  for  her  first  toils 
of  authorship ;  and  the  playful  indignation  with 
'which  he  tossed  them  back  to  her  over  the  dinner 
table,  saying,  "  I  want,  none  of  that." '  "  Hei 
heart,"  she  said,  in  speaking  of  the  occurrence, 
u  was  as  full  as  it  could  hold ;  she  was  happiei 
than  a  queen."  The  narration  of  this  little  inci- 


20  MEMORIAL. 

dent  brought  back  the  life  to  her  pale  cheek,  as 
the  four  hundred  thousand  readers  of  one  of  her 
late  productions  could  not  do  it. 

During  this  period  of  her  first  residence  in 
Boston,  she  made  many  trials  of  her  skill  in 
writing  for  publication,  in  some  of  which  she  was 
successful,  in  others,  not.  One  of  her  fugitive 
pieces,  published  while  she  was  a  member  of 
the  Mt.  Vernon  School,  was  very  extensively  cir- 
culated in  various  forms,  being  republished  in 
England  and  returned  to  this  country  accredited 
to  an  English  authoress,  and  afterwards  published 
also  in  France.  For  many  years  it  was  a  standard 
article  in  reading-books  for  children,  and  it  still 
reappears,  occasionally,  among  the  selections  in 
the  '  Children's  Department'  of  our  religious  news- 
papers. Little  instances  of  success  of  this  kind, 
were  not  fitted  to  induce  the  youthful  authoress  to 
lay  aside  her  pen.  Indeed,  from  that  time  it  was 
never  idle,  till,  at  Death's  bidding,  it  was  laid  down 
forever.  Her  letters,  written  during  that  period, 
indicate  the  germinating  of  a  sense  of  religious 
responsibility  for  any  power  she  might  possess  or 
acquire,  to  influence  others.  She  seems  to  have 
lirected  her  attention  with  earnestness,  to  a  study 
>f  human  character  as  it  is  seen  in  common  life. 
To  a  young  companion,  after  expressing  a  trem- 
)ling  sense  of  the  responsibility  of  those  who  may 


MEMORIAL.  21 

have  influence  within  their  reach,  she  writes  :  "  We 
must  not  be  idle  —  we  must  work,  studying  human 
nature,  that  we  may  find  the  hidden  springs  and 
touch  them  to  any  chord  we  please."  "  It  is  no 
trifle  to  hold  even  a  silken  thread  around  one 
heart." 

The  period  of  her  residence  in  Mr.  Abbott's 
family,  is  marked  by  the  development  of  her  first 
effectual  convictions  on  the  subject  of  religion.  Up 
to  this  time,  her  religious  opinions  do  not  appear 
to  have  been  the  subject  of  much  reflection  ;  nor 
does  she  seem  to  have  experienced  anything  un- 
usual to  children  who  have  been  religiously  edu- 
cated. Indeed,  the  fidelity  of  Christian  parents 
appears  not  to  have  produced  in  her  case  so  great 
distinctness  of  religious  convictions,  as  thr.1  which 
commonly  results  from  such  fidelity.  The  exclu- 
siveness  with  which  the  idea  of  Death  possessed 
her  childish  experience  on  the  subject  of  religion, 
shut  out,  apparently,  much  of  the  more  valuable 
reflection  which  the  children  of  Christian  parents 
often  have  in  early  life.  In  the  fragmentary 
record  she  has  left,  of  the  fascination  with  which 
funerals  affected  her,  she  thus  speaks :  "  The  deep 
solemnity  which  such  seasons  left  upon  my  mind, 
was  the  result  of  fear,  and  of  that  indefinable  awe 
with  which  a  child  looks  over  beyond  the  grave. 
I  used  at  such  times  to  go  often  to  meetings.  I 


22  MEMORIAL. 

would  pray  much,  that  I  might  be  forgiven  and 
accepted  for  Christ's  sake.  But  I  had  no  definite 
ideas  of  what  it  was,  for  which  I  must  be  forgiven. 
I  read  a  great  deal  about  dying,  and  about  the 
soothing  presence  of  Christ  with  his  followers  in 
their  dying  hour.  When  my  fears  were  wide 
awake,  as  they  used  most  often  to  be  at  night,  I 
used  to  repeat  before  going  to  sleep, 

'Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 

Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are,  etc.' " 

She  elsewhere  speaks  of  having  been  often 
anxiously  interested  in  the  salvation  of  her  soul, 
and  she  adds  respecting  these  occasions,  "  They 
were  mostly  at  times  of  unusual  excitement,  caused 
by  some  sudden  death,  or  by  a  protracted  meeting. 
I  particularly  remember  a  visit  of  Doctor  Nettle- 
ton's  at  Andover,  and  his  '  inquiry-meetings,'  all  of 
which  I  faithfully  attended.  None  of  these  in> 
pressions,  however,  were  lasting ;  they  died  away 
with  the  exciting  cause."  This  last  remark  must 
be  understood  as  true,  only  so  far  as  concerns  the 
event  of  her  immediate  conversion,  which  is  the 
main  subject  of  the  sketch.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend, 
written  not  long  before  this,  she  speaks  of  Doctor 
Nettleton's  visit  to  Andover,  thus  :  "  I  remember 
once  at  an  inquiry-meeting,  I  could  not  speak  to 
him.  He  seemed  to  read  my  face  without  words. 


MEMORIAL.  23 

Then,  in  a  low  tone,  —  I  can  hear  it  now, —  lie  said 
to  me  '  Keep  near  to  God  —  keep  near  to  God.' " 
This  single  remark,  dropped  in  the  stillness  of  a 
solemn  hour,  never  left  her.  It  often  recurred  to 
her  mind  afterwards —  even  in  the  last  year  of 
her  life  she  spoke  of  it  —  and  she  distinctly  asso- 
ciated it  with  her  hopeful  conversion,  which  took 
place  several  years  after  the  occasion  on  which 
the  remark  was  uttered.  She  says  of  it,  to  one 
of  her  correspondents,  "  It  was  the  first  still  small 
voice  of  peace  and  holy  joy  that  made  itself  fell 
to  me." 

The  more  general  sketch  above  referred  to,  pro- 
ceeds with  an  account  of  the  manner  in  which  her 
mind  was  again  engaged  in  religious  inquiries.  It 
is  interesting  as  an  illustration  of  the  diversity  of 
God's  ways.  It  shows  how  He  adapts  His  grace  to 
idiosyncrasies  of  temperament  in  those  whom  he 
purposes  to  save.  He  leads  them  'by  a  way  which 
they  knew  not.'  They  '  hear  a  word  behind'  them, 
Miying, '  This  is  the  way.'  Often,  silence  is  made 
more  eloquent  than  speech. 

The  narrative  of  the  '  great  change '  is  contin- 
ued. — "  The  course  which  Mr.  Abbott  adopted, 
was  entirely  the  reverse  of  that  to  which  I  had 
been  accustomed,  and  which  I  expected.  Instead 
of  urging  God's  claims  upon  me,  as  others  had  of- 
ten done,  he  preserved  an  unbroken  silence  on  the 


24  MEMORIAL. 

subject  of  personal  religion.  This  surprised  me, 
and  after  awhile  made  me  uneasy.  I  brought  my- 
self at  length  to  ask  him  for  the  cause  of  his  si- 
lence towards  me  on  that  subject.  He  told  me 
that  he  considered  the  circumstances  under  which. 
I  had  been  brought  up  to  have  been  such,  that 
every  motive  which  could  influence  me  had  been 
already  urged,  and  that  I  had  deliberately  made 
my  choice ;  and  therefore  that  it  remained  for  him 
only  to  fit  me  for  happiness  as  far  as  it  could  be  had 
in  this  world.  This  startled  me,  and  led  me  to 
look  more  earnestly  into  my  heart.  From  this 
beginning,  I  was  led  on  gradually,  and  to  myself 
almost  imperceptibly,  until  I  began  to  dare  to  hope 
that  I  had  become  a  child  of  God,  and  to  wish  to 
take  upon  myself  the  name  of  Christ.  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  great  change  in  me.  Thoughts  of  God 
no  longer  filled  me  with  horror  ;  but  a  view  of  His 
holiness  and  purity  was  granted  to  me,  which  filled 
me  with  inexpressible  joy.  I  felt  that  life  was  an 
1  unspeakable  gift,'  because  there  was  a  God.  I  de- 
sited  most  earnestly  to  approach  as  near  to  His 
holiness  as  I  was  able,  but  many  struggles  taught 
me  how  strong  a  hold  sin  had  in  this  heart.  Here, 
the  atonement  of  Christ  first  met  me  with  power. 
I  felt  driven  to  it ;  and  in  view  of  it,  even  such  a 
sinning  heart  still  dared  to  look  up  and  struggle  on, 
feeling  that  its  heaviest  burden  Christ  himself  bore. 


MEMORIAL.  25 

I  began  to  desire  to  give  myself  wholly  to  God  in 
Christ.  I  wished  to  live  and  die  for  Him.  I  longed 
to  lose  myself  in  Him.  I  wished  to  indulge  no 
plans,  nor  purposes,  nor  feelings,  nor  thoughts,  of 
which  love  to  Him  was  not  the  guiding  spring. 
To  live  for  His  glory,  seemed  all  that  rendered  life 
worth  possessing.  If  I  must  cease  to  do  this,  I 
would  also  cease  to  live.  This  was  a  great  change 
from  my  former  self,  and  I  have  dared  to  hope  that 
it  was  God's  own  work." 

The  '  gradual,'  and  to  herself '  almost  impercep- 
tible,' process  of  which  she  speaks,  aa  having  pre- 
ceded the  dawn  of  Christian  hope  in  her  heart, 
was  protracted  through  a  period  of  nearly  two 
years.  Her  susceptible  nature  could  not  but  be 
stirred  to  its  very  depths  by  earnest  religious  in- 
quiry. Her  experience  was  rendered  the  more 
tumultuous  in  its  character,  by  the  fact  that  this 
inquiry  was  awakened  just  at  the  time  when  her 
whole  intellectual  being  was  opening  itself  to  new 
influences,  and  approaching  the  maturity  of  wo- 
manhood. The  great  thoughts  of  Life,  and  Death, 
and  Destiny,  and  God,  swayed  her  feelings  impet- 
uously to  and  fro.  Often,  for  long  periods,  her 
soul  was  too  powerfully  agitated  to  admit  of  her 
resting  in  calm  hope. 

At  least,  such  was  the  character  of  her  expe- 
3 


26  MEMORIAL. 

rience,  as  it  seemed  to  develop  itself  to  her  own 
consciousness,  and  as  she  recalled  it  in  subsequent 
years.  Yet,  even  at  that  early  period,  she  had  ac- 
quired a  strength  of  character  which  prevented  any 
guch  tumultuous  exhibition  of  her  feelings  to  oth- 
ers. The  impression  which  others  received  of  the 
workings  of  her  mind,  may  be  best  inferred  from 
the  judgment  expressed  by  Mr.  Abbott,  who 
writes  with  regard  to  that  passage  in  her  history, 
"  My  impression  is,  decidedly,  that  her  religious 
experience,  in  all  its  stages,  though  connected  with 
deep  feeling  within,  was  very  calm,  qniet,  and 
gentle,  in  all  the  external  manifestations  of  it.  I 
do  not  think  there  were  a-ny  great  fluctuations  of 
feeling.  There  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  cer- 
tain principle  of  momentum,  so  to  speak,  in  Eliza- 
beth's mind,  which  gave  great  steadiness  to  all  it* 
action." 

It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  she  brought 
herself  to  communicate  her  feelings  on  the  subject 
of  religion,  even  with  the  pen,  and  to  those  who 
possessed  her  entire  confidence.  The  inquiry  which 
opened  her  intercourse  with  Mr.  Abbott  on  the 
subject,  cost  her  a  severe  struggle ;  and  so  sensi- 
tive was  she  to  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  in  the 
utterance  of  religious  feeling,  that  to  the  very  last 
of  her  conferences  with  her  instructor  respecting 


MEMORIAL.  27 

her  Christian  hope?,  she  often  preferred  that  her 
pen  should  speak  for  her,  although  she  was  an  in- 
mate of  his  family. 

From  this  excessive  sensibility  in  respect  to  an 
expression  of  religious  experience,  she  never  whol- 
ly recovered.  She  mourned  over  it,  weeping  in 
secret  places ;  and  it  was  the  occasion  of  many 
struggles.  The  brief  record  given  above  of  her 
early  experience  on  the  subject  of  religion,  was 
prepared  many  years  afterwards,  at  the  request 
of  a  Committee  of  a  Church  with  which  she  was 
about  to  connect  herself,  —  and  this  mode  of  com- 
munication was  adopted,  because,  after  many  fruit- 
less efforts,  she  found  herself  unable  to  appear  be- 
fore them  and  speak  of  that  which  God  had  done 
for  her  soul. 

Yet,  this  very  delicacy  of  her  too  sensitive  heart 
gave  a  depth  of  tenderness  to  her  '  first  love '  of 
her  Saviour.  That  love  was  mingled  with  a  feeling 
of  self-reproach,  as  if  she  wronged  him  by  being 
a  mute  friend.  It  was  one  of  the  burdens  of  her 
daily  supplication,  that  her  tongue  might  be  un- 
loosed to  praise  Him.  To  one  who  knows  the 
earnestness  of  her  soul's  desire  in  this  respect, 
there  is  a  tearful  pathos  in  her  appeal  to  her  young 
friend,  after  an  humble  confession  of  her  own  in- 
firmity :  "  You  love  the  Saviour,  and  why  should 
you  hesitate  to  speak  of  Him  ?"  Many  of  her  let- 


28  MEMORIAL. 

ters,  written  at  about  the  time  when  she  first  in- 
dulged Christian  hope,  breathe  the  same  spirit 
Her  most  importunate  desires  appear  to  have  been 
excited  for  the  salvation  of  her  companions.  The 
love  of  Christ  was  the  unfailing  theme  of  her  cor- 
respondence with  them.  She  could  not '  speak  of 
Him,'  but  she  could  enter  into  her  closet,  and  having 
shut  to  the  door,  under  the  Eye  that  seeth  in  secret, 
she  could  pour  forth  her  very  soul,  in  written  ex- 
postulations with  her  young  friends.  The  delicacy 
of  her  own  feelings  about  these  unstudied  effusions 
of  her  heart,  forbids  the  transfer  of  them  to  these 
pages;  but  a  glimpse  of  the  genial  spirit  that  per- 
vades them,  may  be  caught  from  a  transcript  of  a 
single  scene  in  one  of  the  little  volumes  which 
she  has  herself  given  to  the  world.  It  is  the 
scene  in  the  "  Peep  at  Number  Five,"  in  which 
she  records  an  interview  between  Grace  Webster 
and  the  Pastor.  Of  all  the  characters  in  that  vol- 
ume, Grace  Webster  was  her  favorite;  and  to 
one  who  knew  her  early  history,  this  was  not  sur- 
prising. That  character,  rather  than  others  which 
are  more  fully  delineated,  drew  her  to  itself  by  a 
secret  cord  of  which  she  was  almost  wholly  un- 
conscious. Without  intending  to  do  so,  she  has  in 
reality  depicted  herself  in  the  following  scene,  so  far 
as  concerns  her  early  experience  of  love  to  Chri.-t. 
"  Grace  Webster  was  very  engaging  in  her  ap- 


MEMORIAL.  29 

pearance  ;  her  manners  were  gentle,  and  she  was 
us  timid  as  a  fawn.  Mr.  Holbrook  was  at  once 
much  interested  in  her  ;  he  tried  to  converse  with 
her,  but  could  induce  her  to  say  but  little.  Her 
mother,  who  had  been  watching  her  with  intense 
feeling,  at  length  spoke  of  the  recent  interest  man- 
ifested in  the  church  meetings,  and  of  the  serious- 
ness of  many  of  the  young  people,  — '  and  our 
Grace,'  added  she,  with  a  faltering  voice  and  a 
burst  of  tears,  '  and  our  Grace  wants  to  talk  with 
you.'  Upon  this  she  rose,  and  immediately  left 
the  room.  Old  Mr.  Webster  seemed  to  under- 
stand what  was  going  on,  for  he  resumed  his  seat 
by  the  window,  and  his  newspaper.  He  was  very- 
deaf,  and  Grace  was  now  alone  with  her  minister, 
who  at  once  understood  and  entered  into  all  her 
feelings.  He  seemed  to  know  just  what  she  wish- 
ed to  say.  Step  by  step  he  gently  led  her  on  to 
breathe  out  that  confession,  which,  as  yet,  she  had 
dared  only  to  whisper  in  her  closet  to  God.  Her 
color  came  and  went,  —  her  breathing  was  rapid, 
— her  heart  beat  quickly,  —  and  her  deep  blue 
eye  dilated  with  intense  feeling  when  the  young 
hope,  just  born  in  her  heart,  found  a  voice  ;  when 
she  ventured  to  speak  of  it  to  her  minister,  and 
say  that  she  hoped  she  had  been  forgiven,  that 
her  name  was  enrolled  in  the  k  Lamb's  book  of 
life.'  From  that  moment  new  ties  bound  her  to 
3* 


30 


MEM  OEIAL. 


him.  Her  fears  vanished,  and,  looking  up  into 
his  face  with  her  earnest,  tearful  eyes,  as  a  daugh- 
ter looks  to  her  father,  she  opened  to  him  all  her 
heart.  She  told  him  of  '  her  joy,  now  that  she 
had  found  her  Saviour ;  how  much  she  had  pined 
for  just  such  a  friend,  and  that  she  now  found  hi 
Him  all  and  more  than  all  she  had  been  seeking, 

—  perfect  fulness  of  sympathy  and  love.     Was  it 
not  kind  in  Him,  to  come  and  thus  fill  her  heart  ? 

—  she  asked,  was  ever  love  like  His  ?  —  how  had 
she  lived  so  long  without  Him  ?      And  yet,'  said 
she,  'I  think  I  should  have  been  without   Him 
now,  had  it  not  been  for  you.     I  was  interested  in 
you,  and  I  believed  every  word  you  said.     When 
you  preached  so  much  and  prayed  so  much  about 
the  Saviour,  and  about  trusting  Him,  I  could  not 
forget  it.  On  Sundays  and  on  week  days  I  thought 
of  it,  — I  knew  that  I  was  not  loving  Him,  and  I 
had  no  peace  until  I  began  to  pray  to  Him,  and  I 
did  pray  until  I  found  Him  —  no,  until  He  found 
me.'  *  *  *  *  * 

11  Mr.  Holbrook  rose  and  took  his  leave,  and 
Grace  slipped  away  to  her  own  room,  and  locked 
her  door,  that  she  might  be  alone  with  her  Sav- 
iour." 

THUS  genially,  after  a  long  and  cloudy  night, 
did  the  daystar  arise  in  the  heart  of  the  young 


MEMORIAL.  31 

disciple.  One  might  have  hoped  that  it  should 
be  the  harbinger  of  a  calm  summer  day.  But 
such  was  not,  in  all  its  parts,  her  Christian  life. 
The  elements  of  a  vigorous  and  yet  sensitive 
character  are  not  often  adjusted  well  to  each 
other,  without  many  secret  conflicts.  Those  con- 
flicts are  the  more  severe,  when  such  a  character 
goes  through  the  formative  process  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  bold,  positive  system  of  religious 
faith.  A  gifted  soul,  under  such  a  system,  strikes 
deep  down,  in  search  of  foundations  for  its  rest. 
It  builds  not  on  sands.  In  the  case  of  the  subject 
of  this  sketch,  religious  character  was  developed 
under  infirmities  of  physical  constitution,  and 
these  were  aggravated  by  positive  disease.  The 
period  she  had  spent  in  the  Mt.  Vernon  school, 
had  been  one  of  untiring  industry.  Her  studies 
had  been  pursued  with  indomitable  purpose.  She 
felt  that  much  was  expected  from  her,  and  her 
spirit  was  too  lofty  to  permit  her  to  do  less  than 
seemed  to  be  due  to  the  expectations  of  her 
friends.  She  exerted  herself  beyond  her  strength. 
She  concealed  the  first  indications  of  disease.  Her 
studies  were  pursued  with  unremitting  ardor  long 
after  she  should  have  been  under  the  care  of  a 
physician.  She  was  compelled  to  return  to  her 
father's  house,  in  the  spring  of  1834,  bearing  with 
her  the  germs  of  the  cerebral  disease,  which  nearly 


32  M  E  M  O  K  I  A  L  . 

twenty  years  afterwards  terminated  her  life.  For 
three  or  four  years  after  her  return  to  Andover, 
she  was  afflicted  with  severe  and  frequent  head- 
aches, accompanied  by  partial  blindness,  and  fol- 
lowed by  temporary  paralysis  of  portions  of  her 
body,  and  great  prostration  of  the  nervous  system. 
These  affections  seemed  at  length  to  reach  a  crisis 
in  an  attack  of  the  typhus  fever,  under  which  she 
sunk  so  low  that  her  life  was  despaired  of,  and 
her  father  at  one  time  entered  her  room  to  inform 
her  that  she  was  supposed  to  be  dying.  She  re- 
covered, however,  and  till  near  the  time  of  her 
death,  fourteen  years  afterwards,  she  enjoyed 
many  periods  of  comfortable  health.  But  her 
constitution  was  broken,  and  she  was  not  for  any 
long  time  relieved  from  morbid  affections  of  the 
brain. 

Under  such  circumstances  as  these,  it  was  not 
to  be  expected  that  her  religious  experience  should 
be  as  equable  in  its  character  as,  even  with  her 
variable  temperament,  it  might  otherwise  have 
been.  It  is  true,  her  outward  life  was  subjected 
to  but  few  disturbing  influences ;  the  lines  seemed 
to  fall  to  her  in  pleasant  places ;  and  to  the  ma- 
jority of  those  who  knew  her,  it  was  not  manifest 
that  her  life  was  one  of  any  unusual  trial.  But 
the  few  friends  who  were  familiar  with  the  habits 
of  her  mind,  think  of  her  now  as  having  endured 


MEMORIAL.  33 

a  severity  of  conflict  which  was  fullyknown  only 
to  herself  and  God.  This  was  especially  true  of 
the  first  few  years  of  her  Christian  life,  irv  which 
she  was  most  severely  afflicted  with  disease. 

Her  public  profession  of  her  faith  in  Christ  was 
an  act  of  great  self-denial  to  her.  Under  any  cir- 
cumstances, the  publicity  of  it  would  have  been 
peculiarly  painful  to  her.  It  was  rendered  the 
more  so  by  the  fact,  that  of  a  large  family,  she  was 
the  first  who  had  been  prepared  for  such  a  solemni- 
ty, and  also  by  the  fact  that  she  was  called  to  it  at 
a  time  when  her  moral  power  was  weakened  by 
the  feebleness  of  her  health.  She  shrunk  from  it 
as  from  a  fiery  ordeal.  For  a  long  time,  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  the  point  of  making  the  sacri- 
fice, though  it  does  not  appear  that  her  Christian 
hope  was  at  that  time  clouded.  In  a  letter  (al- 
ready alluded  to),  addressed  to  a  young  friend 
many  years  after,  she  thus  refers  to  this  trial  of 
her  early  faith :  — 

"  I  well  remember  when  I  stood  just  where  you 
are,  and  I  should  like  to  tell  you  briefly  where  I 
erred.  It  required  a  very  great  effort  for  me  to 
break  the  ice  and  come  forward  first  in  the  family, 
and  make  a  profession  of  religion  by  joining  the 
Chapel  Church.  I  shrunk  from  it  more  than  I  can 
describe ;  and  just  as  long  as  I  did  so,  I  was  un- 
happy. I  think  the  determining  to  do  that  thing, 


3-4  MEMORIAL. 

and  the  doing  of  it,  cost  me  more  of  real  eflbrt 
than  any  other  one  tiling  I  ever  did.  And  yet  I 
would  not,  for  anything  I  can  now  conceive  of, 
have  had  the  trial  less.  My  love  to  Christ  needed 
just  that  test,  and  through  his  mercy  I  bore  it. 
Now  I  want  you  to  ieel  just  this  —  that  you  are 
to  profess  your  faith  in  Christ  because  it  is  His 
command,  and  that  you  will  do  it,  though  all  the 
world  condemn  you.  It  is  a  matter  between  your 
own  soul  and  God,  with  which  a  stranger  inter- 
meddleth  not.  The  solemnity  is  so  full  of  intense 
interest  that,  you  may  depend  on  it,  you  will  for- 
get that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  any  one  but 
God  and  holy  angels.  God  bless  you." 

She  became  a  member  of  the  church  of  the 
Theological  Seminary  in  Andover,  in  the  month 
of  July,  1834.  Soon  after  this,  the  increasing 
violence  of  the  disease  which  had  fastened  itself 
upon  her  constitution,  caused  her  much  physical 
suffering,  and  plunged  her  into  great  despondency. 
Her  way  seemed  to  lie  before  her  in  deep  shadow. 
Her  mind  was  tempted  to  swing  loose  from  the 
faith  to  which  her  childhood  had  been  trained. 
She  saw  little  to  cheer  her  in  this  world,  and, 
often,  as  little  in  the  world  to  come.  Those  were 
years  which  in  after  life,  she  sometimes  recalled 
with  misgivings,  lest  the  cloud  which  overshadowed 
them  should  gather  again.  Slie  learned  to  regard 


MEMORIAL.  35 

them,  however,  as  having  subjected  her  character 
to  a  discipline  which  it  needed.  They  were  the 
season  of  her  trial,  preparatory  to  the  usefulness 
and  peace  which  were  afterwards  to  be  given  her. 
They  were  necessary  to  subdue  her  wayward  sen- 
sibilities, to  strengthen  her  judgment,  to  rectify 
errors  of  opinion,  and  to  give  definiteness  to  views 
of  truth  which  she  had  held  obscurely.  They  en- 
larged and  invigorated  her  character,  in  every 
way.  It  is  doubtful  whether  she  could  at  that 
time  have  borne  with  safety,  a  more  gentle  expe- 
rience. Such  an  experience  could  scarcely  have 
resulted  in  that  intelligence  and  that  deptli  of 
religious  convictions,  which  were  needed  for  the 
best  development  of  a  nature  so  vigorous  and  im- 
pulsive as  hers.  The  truthfulness  of  this  view  will 
be  evident  from  a  glau  *e  at  one  or  two  phases  of 
her  life  at  this  time.  They  are  interesting,  not 
only  as  preliminaries  to  her  subsequent  usefulness, 
but  as  illustrations  of  the  ways  in  which  physical 
suffering  is  often  made  the  instrument  of  mental 
and  religious  growth. 

The  discipline  to  which  she  was  at  this  period 
subjected^  led,  among  other  things,  to  a  revision  of 
some  of  her  views  as  to  the  nature  of  a  religious 
life.  The  first  workings  of  religious  principle  in 
her  mind  had  given  her,  as  she  afterwards  thought 
a  theory  of  practical  religion  which  was  not  sym 


36  MEMORIAL. 

metrical  in  its  character,  and  therefore  not  health- 
ful in  its  operation.  Her  own  experience  under 
it,  first  directed  her  attention  to  its  incompleteness. 
She  suffered  for  the  want  of  occupations  which  it 
did  not  allow  to  her.  The  difficulty  which  she  had 
specially  to  encounter,  was  that  her  conscientious 
scruples  did  not  for  a  long  time  justify  the  indul- 
gence of  those  refined  tastes,  which  were  so  promi- 
nent a  feature  in  the  make  of  her  being.  They 
were  less  obviously  practical  than  some  others. 
She  could  not  find  a  place  for  them  in  the  routine  of 
a  religious  life.  A  suppression  of  them  seemed  to 
her  inevitable.  Life  was  to  her  eye,  a  passage 
through  a  great  emergency.  It  should  admit  only 
the  useful  in  action  and  the  resolute  in  mental 
habit.  It  should  leave  no  heart  for  the  enjoyment 
of  images  of  beauty  or  so'  ads  of  sweet  melody. 
Such  was  the  language  of  the  first  rude  instinct 
of  her  religious  nature.  She  has  left  on  record  a 
brief  account  of  this  passage  in  her  history.  The 
record  was  made  in  an  attempt,  some  years  after- 
wards, to  aid  the  efforts  of  a  young  friend  who 
was  struggling  with  similar  affliction. 

"  Some  five  or  six  years  ago,"  she  writes,  "  when 
I  first  began  to  feel  the  power  of  religious  obliga- 
tion, I  became  an  absolute  utilitarian.  I  thought 
I  had  no  right  to  employ  my  time  or  my  talents 
in  anything  that  was  not  obviously  usejid — of  some 


M  E  MORI  A  L  .  37 

solid,  and  visible,  and  tangible  value  to  myself  or 
to  others.  AVhat  good  did  painting  do  ?  or  music  ? 
or  poetry?  or  a  thousand  things  I  loved?  None, 
that  I  could  see.  So  I  condemned  them  all.  I 
took  up  Philosophy,  and  studied,  and  wrote  prose, 
and  sewed,  and  what  not.  My  days  were  all 
given  up  to  the  '  solid  and  useful,'  as  the  world 
would  say.  I  felt,  as  every  one  feels,  a  sort  of 
happiness  in  making  a  sacrifice  with  a  good  mo- 
tive. This  sustained  me  at  times ;  and  the  regu- 
larity of  my  employments  did  more.  Tet,  1  wot 
not  happy.  My  soul  did  thirst  for  the  beautiful 
and  the  true.  Suppressed  longings,  and  unsatis- 
fied tastes,  and  despised  capacities,  at  length  took 
their  revenge.  They  fretted,  and  chafed,  and 
wore  upon  the  delicate  frame-work  that  enclosed 
them,  until  it  gave  way.  Then  followed  four  long, 
dreary  years.  * 

If  I  was  a  Christian  then,  I  certainly  was  not  a 
happy  one.  I  was  a  burden  to  myself  and  others. 
My  mine!  became  morbid.  *  It 

was  a  long  process,  and  a  troubled  one ;  but  I 
learned  at  last  to  be  happy  as  God  would  have 
me  be.  I  found  out,  that  He  who  made  me  knew 
better  than  1,  what  He  made  me  for ;  and  that 
He  had  not  given  me  tastes,  and  inclinations,  and 
talents,  all  in  themselves  innocent,  to  be  supprea- 
4 


68  MEMOBIAIr. 

sed,  and  to  have  others  substituted  for  them.  I 
'  turned  over  a  new  leaf; '  I  did  it  with  trembling ; 
but  I  did  it.  And  now,  I  follow  all  my  natural 
tastes,  so  far  as  they  are  in  themselves  harmless. 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  gratify  them,  so  far  as  I  can, 
aiming  only  at  a  right  regulation  of  them  by  the 
principles  of  the  Gospel,  and  trying  to  feel  that 
they  and  I  belong  to  Him  who  gave  them.  If  the 
bringing  to  perfection  the  nature  which  He  gave 
me,  does  not  sooner  or  later  fit  me  for  my  highest 
usefulness  to  others,  it  must  be  because  I  am  not 
sincere  in  my  entire  consecration  of  it  to  Him. 
Well,  what  is  the  result  ?  AVhy,  from  the  very 
first  half  hour  in  which  I  broke  down  the  barriers 
of  my  old  system,  and  took  up  my  pencil,  I  said, 
'  Good  bye  to  doctors.'  I  have  been  happier,  I 
have  been  better,  every  way.  I  can  now  often 
bring  to  the  altar  —  oh,  how  much  oftener  than  in 
days  of  yore  —  the  offering  of  a  grateful,  cheer- 
ful, satisfied  heart.  I  do  not  find  in  the  Scrip- 
tures any  jarring  with  my  present  view  of  my 
duties  in  life.  And  I  am  taught  by  the  beauty  of 
morning  and  evening  clouds,  by  the  sunshine,  and 
the  rainbow,  and  the  singing  of  birds,  and  the 
sweet  breath  of  flowers,  that  a  cultivation  of  our 
tastes  for  the  beautiful  in  His  works  and  ways, 
sweetens  life  and  refines  the  heart,  and  makes  it 


MEMORIAL.  39 

easier  for  us  to  be  holy.  You  will  find  some 
goodness  in  the  hovel  where  there  are  flower  vines 
at  the  window.  *  *  *  But  it  is 

time  my  strain  was  over." 

The  infirmity  here  disclosed,  is  no  uncommon 
one  in  the  early  religious  lite  of  cultivated  minds. 
The  two  processes  of  intellectual  and  of  religious 
cultivation,  do  not  always,  in  fact,  run  parallel 
with  each  other.  The  adjustment  of  them,  in  its 
perfection,  is  the  result  of  time  and  growth,  often 
of  mistakes  and  conflicts.  If  the  subject  of  this 
narrative  suffered  more  than  others  from  this 
cause,  it  was  in  part  the  consequence  of  her  natu- 
ral strength  of  character.  If  she  held  an  opinion, 
she  held  it  positively  ;  if  she  felt  a  conviction,  she 
felt  it  deeply ;  if  she  formed  a  purpose,  she  clung 
to  it  long  —  it  was  so  in  everything.  Besides, 
her  first  experience  of  vital  religion  occurred  dur- 
ing the  most  romantic  period  of  her  youth,  and 
as  lias  been  already  observed,  was  simultaneous 
also  with  the  attacks  of  severe  bodily  disease.  It 
is  not  singular  that  the  revision,  of  her  theory  of 
religion  should  have  cost  her  some  struggles  with 
herself. 

She  was  much  assisted  in  this  process  of  ad- 
justment between  her  natural  tastes  and  the 
claims  of  conscience,  by  a  peculiarity  which  she 
Adopted  in  her  mode  of  studying  the  Scriptures- 


40  MEMORIAL. 

It  was  her  practice  to  observe  in  her  reading  of 
the  Bible,  all  those  historical  scenes  which  seemed 
to  her  to  be  good  subjects  for  representation  on 
the  canvas.  She  thus  associated  her  taste  lor  the 
arts  with  her  love  of  God's  Word,  and  rendered 
each  in  turn  the  handmaid  of  the  other.  Among 
her  papers  are  found  fragmentary  criticisms,  ex- 
pressing hints  of  her  ideas  of  many  scriptural 
scenes,  which  had  thus  been  made  the  themes  of 
her  study.  A  single  specimen  of  these  may  be 
given  here,  not  for  any  artistic  merit  (which  it 
may  or  may  not  have),  but  merely  to  illustrate 
the  original  mode  which  she  adopted  for  the  dis- 
cipline of  her  own  mind,  in  respect  to  the  tastes 
•which  had  caused  her  so  much  trouble. 

"Matt.  14:  25.  'And  in  the  fourth  watch  of 
the  night,  Jesus  went  unto  them  walking  on  the 
sea.'  This  is  a  very  difficult  scene,  and  has 
been  often  attempted ;  but,  so  far  as  I  have  seen, 
with  not  much  success.  The  ship  tossed  with  the 
waves,  could  be  finely  represented.  There  should 
be  a  spirited,  not  a  tame  storm.  The  artist  should 
learn  whether  there  are  any  appearances  peculiar 
to  a  storm  on  the  sea  of  Gallilee.  In  the  dim- 
ness, a  few  anxious  faces  from  among  the  fisher- 
men should  be  partially  visible.  The  confusion 
on  board  should  be  in  keeping  with  the  storm. 
Then,  in  a  line  of  light  —  on  a  pathway  calm  a? 


MEMORIAL.  41 

if  oil  had  stilled  the  angry  foam  —  the  figure  of 
the  Saviour  should  be  seen.  In  all  scriptural 
scenes,  I  would  have  our  Lord's  face  partly  con- 
cealed. In  this  instance,  a  mantle  should  envelop 
it.  The  calm  majesty  of  his  figure,  and  the  firm- 
ness of  his  tread,  should  be  such  as  to  give  us  the 
idea  of  the  supernatural.  Opposed  to  this,  should 
be  Peter,  —  the  boldness  of  his  face  fading  away 
as  a  huge  wave  comes  rolling  up,  and  the  one  be- 
neath him  sinks.  It  seems  to  me,  this  point  in 
the  scene  would  be  the  finest,  because  it  would 
give  us  at  a  glance  the  full  moral  of  it,  —  the 
Divinity  of  Jesus,  and  the  unsteady  boldness  of 
Peter.  This,  if  the  night  and  storm  were  well 
done,  would  be  a  most  thrilling  picture." 

By  such  studies  as  this,  did  the  troubled  spirit, 
in  its  humble  way,  strive  to  solve  for  itself  the 
problem  which  so  many  gifted  minds  have  cast 
from  them  with  disdain,  —  of  reconciling  Duty 
in  a  world  of  sin,  with  the  aspirations  of  Genius. 

While  these  changes  in  her  views  of  practical 
life  were  in  progress,  another  process  was  going 
on,  of  equal  importance  in  its  effects  upon  her 
character.  Those  '  dreary  four  years,'  together 
with  several  that  followed  them,  were  marked 
by  many  temptations  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the 
theological  system  under  which  she  had  been  edu- 
cated. Her  earlier  inquiries  on  the  subject  of 
4* 


42  MEMORIAL. 

religion  do  not  appear  to  have  raised  any  doubts 
in  her  inind.  She  had  received  without  question 
the  faith  of  her  fathers.  She  had  felt  little  inter- 
est in  theological  speculations.  The  Being  of 
God,  her  own  sinfulness,  and  the  Atonement  by 
Christ,  seem  to  have  been  almost  the  only  points 
of  religious  doctrine  which  her  own  experience 
heretofore  had  rendered  necessary  to  her.  And 
these  she  had  received,  because  she  had  for  the 
time  felt  them  to  be  true.  When  disease  and  suf- 
fering forced  upon  her  a  frequent  suspension  of 
this  experience  of  truth,  they  forced  upon  her  also 
the  necessity  of  reexamining  her  faith  even  to  its 
groundwork.  This  was  a  kind  of  effort  to  which 
her  mind  had  never  accustomed  itself.  She  seems 
to  have  engaged  in  it,  for  a  long  time,  fitfully,  and 
without  much  satisfaction.  The  personal  inde- 
pendence which  was  innate  in  her,  sometimes  in- 
clined her  to  question  proudly  what  others  believed. 
Her  wayward  spirits,  now  more  frequently  depres- 
sed than  otherwise,  gave  a  magnitude  to  objec- 
tions which  in  later  life  she  smiled  at.  The  Old 
Testament  Scriptures  perplexed  her.  She  oven 
admitted  at  times  questionings  of  the  Being  of  a 
God.  It  is  not  probable  that  any  of  these  diffi- 
culties would  have  taken  the  painful  form  they 
sometimes  assumed,  if  disease  had  not  so  sorely 
oppressed  her.  Sooner  or  later,  however,  a  mind 


MEMORIAL.  43 

Tike  hers  must  have  encountered  them.  Perhaps, 
for  thoroughness  of  discipline,  it  was  better  that 
they  came  when  and  as  they  did.  One  or  two 
extracts  from  her  papers,  will  exhibit  the  most 
truthful  view  of  the  unsettled  state  into  which  her 
mind  sometimes  fell,  and  of  the  rebound  of  her 
soul,  after  all,  to  its  early  faith,  which  it  would  not 
let  go. 

In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  written  on  a  Saturday 
night,  she  writes  :  "  I  am  startled  to  see  how  many 
atheistical  thoughts  I  have  had  this  week.  I  am 
reading  in  course  the  Old  Testament.  I  cannot, 
at  some  moments,  resist  the  feeling,  that  if  it  were 
not  hallowed  as  God's  Word,  we  should  reject  it 
with  contempt.  Then  I  put  down  the  feeling, 
and  think  that,  as  the  rude  ancients  would  have 
laughed  to  scorn  the  idea  that  the  sun  stood  still 
and  the  earth  was  in  motion,  so  it  may  be  that  in 
a  region  of  clearer  light,  all  these  dark  places  will 
be  illuminated.  Then  again,  the  Mosaic  account 
of  the  creation  puzzles  me.  It  seems  like  the 
stories  by  which  we  attempt  to  satisfy  the  curiosity 
of  children.  But,  be  it  what  it  may,  Christianity 
is  the  only  religion  on  which  the  soul  can  rest.  A 
religion  it  must  have ;  it  cannot  believe  its  own  mor. 
tality.  Then  on  this  faith,  glorious  if  it  be  ob 
scure,  I  will  rest.  Here  I  intrust  this  soul.  li 


44  MEMORIAL. 

this  faith  be  a  fiction,  it  is  the  only  one  in  which  1 
can  live  ;  and  as  its  convert,  I  am  willing  to  die." 
At  a  somewhat  later  period,  in  recording  some 
thoughts  suggested  by  reading  the  '  Memoirs  of 
Goethe,'  she  writes  as  follows  :  "  I  have  been  ac- 
customed to  regard  everything  of  a  religious  na- 
ture as  sacred ;  all  prayers,  by  whomever  offered, 
all  acts  of  worship,  all  good  books,  as  above  all 
criticism  and  cavil.  Even  on  the  border-land  of 
Eden,  Reason  should  fold  her  wings,  and  retire 
into  the  background.  It  may  be  that  this  is  the 
safer  and  happier  course :  but  for  a  long  time  it 
has  not  satisfied  me.  The  hitherto  calm  surface 
has  been  ruffled  by  doubts,  curiosity,  inquiry.  I 
believe  the  foundations  of  my  faith  are  immov- 
able  as  the  pillars  of  the  universe,  but  in  its  super- 
structure I  find  a  host  of  difficulties.  This  book 
has  affected  me  powerfully,  —  I  do  not  know  that 
I  can  add,  happily.  It  has  given  shape  and  color- 
ing to  many  vague  sentiments  which  I  have  had, 
but  dared  not  express,  —  particularly  this  one,  that 
religion  has  not  a  distinct  character  of  its  own  ; 
that  it  is  not  always  recognizable;  that  it  is  came- 
•eon-like,  and  assumes  the  color  of  the  heart  where 
it  dwells.  Every  one  frames  a  Deity  for  himself, 
ind  offers  a  worship  peculiar  to  himself.  Xo  two 
individuals  worship  the  same  God.  Hew  is  it 


MfcM  ORIAL.  45 

possible,  then,  to  have  any  test  or  standard  of  pie- 
ty ?  How  unlike  is  the  piety  of  Professor , 

and  that  of  old  Mrs. !  How  unlike  their  res- 
pective Deities  !  How  unlike  their  interpretations 
of  the  Bible !  Where  are  the  points  of  resem- 
blance to  prove  that  if  one  is  a  Christian,  so  is  the 
other  ?  '  Why,  each  one  acts  according  to  the 
light  he  has.'  Granted ;  then  religion  is  no  defi- 
nite kind  of  feeling  and  conduct ;  it  is  the  peculiar 
development  of  each  heart  in  its  attempts  to  obey 
its  own  ideas  of  right.  Then,  how  liberal  ought 
we  to  be  !  —  why  not  see  good  Christians  every- 
where ? 

"  After  writing  this,  I  went  out  in  the  evening  to 
a  lecture  on  Hindostan.  The  absurdity,  wicked- 
ness, and  vileness  of  the  Hindoo  religion,  fill  me 
with  horror.  But  here  is  a  religion  of  man's  own 
imagination.  They  follow  the  "  devices  of  their 
own  hearts."  They  obey  their  voice  of  right. 
True  religion  surely  is  something  more  than  this." 

In  another  connection  she  expresses  briefly  and 
more  generally  the  restless  state  of  her  mind  dur- 
ing this  period.  She  writes  :  '•  I  seem  to  live  in 
another  world.  It  is  difficult  sometimes,  with 
everything  around  me  that  heart  could  wish,  to 
live  in  this  world  at  all.  There  are  but  few  hours 
in  which'  my  nature  rests  satisfied.  I  get  impa- 
tient and  homesick  for  heaven.  I  feel  like  a  wan- 


46  MEMORIAL. 

derer  —  I  am  seeking,  seeking,  seeking,  ever  like 
a  child  lost  in  the  forests."  No  words  could  form 
a  more  significant  epitome  of  her  mental  experi- 
ence for  many  years  after  her  profession  of  Chris- 
tian faith,  than  these  —  "  seeking,  seeking,  seek- 
ing." 

This  period  of  her  life  should  not  be  regarded, 
however,  as  strictly  a  period  of  religious  scepti- 
cism, or  of  even  an  inclination  to  such  a  stattj. 
She  did  not  herself  so  regard  it,  in  looking  back 
to  it,  after  her  opinions  and  character  had  been 
matured.  The  foundations  of  her  faith  were 
never  really  shaken.  Her  confidence  in  the  relv 
gious  system  which  she  had  been  taught  in  child~ 
hood,  was  never  really  suspended.  The  perplexir 
ties  she  experienced  were  those  to  which  every 
inquiring  mind  that  has  been  religiously  cultivated 
in  childhood,  is  liable,  when  it  comes  to  the  pro- 
cess of  examining  for  itself  the  creed  it  has  been 
taught  to  believe.  The  inheritance  from  its  fathers 
is  to  be  now  vested  in  its  own  right,  and  it  scruti- 
nizes with  new  solicitude  the  validity  of  the  title. 
In  the  case  of  her  to  whom  the  tribute  of  these 
pages  is  rendered,  the  perplexities  of  religious  u> 
quiry  were  rendered  more  painful  than  they  would 
otherwise  have  been,  by  the  disturbing  and  de- 
pressing influence  of  physical  suffering.  The  ear- 
nestness of  her  soul  under  this  discipline,  is  evident 


M  K  M  O  R  I  A  L  .  47 

in  all  the  records  that  remain  of  her  experience 
during  this  period.  They  are  remarkable  for  the 
exhibition  they  make  of  the  straggles  of  a  tempted 
spirit.  "  Lord,  I  believe  —  help  tliou  mine  unbe- 
lief," is  the  prayer  they  seem  to  breathe.  Iv.irely 
is  an  expression  of  doubt  or  of  perplexity  recorded, 
which  is  not  immediately  followed  by  a  more  posi- 
tive expression  of  faith. 

The  confirmation  of  her  religious  opinions  was 
by  a  very  gradual  process,  and  it  appears  to  have 
advanced  nearly  in  proportion  with  the  improve- 
ment of  her  health.  Yet,  some  more  direct  means 
were  of  great  advantage  to  her.  Of  these,  the 
study  of  the  Scriptures  was,  doubtless,  the  most 
important.  They  Avere  her  daily  companions. 
She  commenced  the  practice,  which  she  continued 
at  intervals,  to  the  end  of  her  life,  of  employing 
her  pen  as  an  accompaniment  of  her  Biblical 
studies.  An  abstract  of  a  scriptural  passage  was 
first  recorded,  and  then  followed  the  difficulties  she 
experienced  in  understanding  it.  or  the  inquiries 
which  it  raised  in  her  mind,  together  with  the  best 
answers  that  occurred  to  her ;  or  if  no  answer  sat- 
isfied her,  the  almost  never  failing  expression  of 
the  faith  of  her  heart,  which  no  "obstinate  ques- 
tionings "  could  destroy.  She  derived  much  bene- 
fit from  the  study,  in  this  way,  of  her  father's 
Commentaries.  She  read  them  all  with  pen  in 


48  MEMORIAL. 

hand,  except  that  on  the  Apocalypse.  Upon  this 
she  was  engaged  during  the  last  year  of  her  life, 
and  had  nearly  finished  it  when  she  was  called 
away.  There  was  something  in  her  father's  direct 
and  manly  mode  of  treating  the  difficulties  of 
truth,  which  charmed  her. 

Another  method  which  she  appears  to  hav« 
adopted,  of  fortifying  her  mind  against  the  per- 
plexities that  disturbed  her  peace,  was  that  of 
recording,  in  a  manuscript  volume,  the  religious 
convictions  expressed  by  the  most  distinguished 
Christian  minds.  This  volume  she  specially  valued. 
She  preserved  it  for  many  years  after  she  had 
ceased  to  feel  the  need  of  its  contents.  She  re- 
garded it  as  a  representation  in  miniature,  of  the 
features  of  her  own  mind  during  a  perilous  period 
of  its  history.  A  single  circumstance  is  worthv  of 
notice  in  the  construction  of  this  little  volume  — 
it  is  indicative  of  the  whole  working  of  her  mind 
on  religious  subjects.  She  has  gathered  together 
in  it  such  expressions  as  she  had  met  with  in  her 
reading,  of  the  religious  opinions  of  the  world's 
great  thinkers  —  ranging  from  Socrates  down  to 
Edmund  Burke,  —  and  then  she  has  summed  up, 
apparently,  the  '  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,' 
by  transcribing  copious  extracts  from  the  addresa 
»f  JEHOVAH,  as  recorded  near  the  close  of  the 
Book  of  Job.  '  Gird  up  now  thy  loins  like  a  man, 


MEMORIAL.  4& 

for  /  will  demand  of  thee,  and  answer  ihou  me]  etc, 
Thus  earnestly  did  her  mind  strive  to  throw  itself 
back  upon  the  spirit  of  that  faith  to  which  human 
skepticism  and  human  authority  are  alike  vain. 

A  very  important  influence  in  effecting  her  de- 
liverance from  wavering  of  religious  convictions, 
arose  from  her  study  at  this  time,  of  the  doctrine 
of  the  '  Divine  Decrees.'  A  series  of  discourse? 
preached  in  the  Seminary  Chapel  on  this  subject, 
was  the  '  word  in  season'  to  one  that  was  '  weary.' 
Her  views  of  this  doctrine  before  this  time,  seem 
to  have  had  little  of  positive  influence  upon  her 
character  —  none,  certainly,  that  aided  her  in  her 
perplexities.  It  now  assumed  a  richness  of  value 
to  her  which  it  never  afterwards  lost.  She  re- 
corded, at  the  close  of  a  Sabbath  which  had  been 
devoted  to  meditation  upon  it,  her  new  sense  of  its 
importance.  The  record  appears  to  be  in  part  an 
abstract  of  portions  of  a  discourse  to  which  she 
had  that  day  listened,  and  in  part  an  expression  of 
its  effect  upon  herself. 

"  This  subject,"  she  writes,  "  has  opened  a  new 
world  to  me.  I  shall  be  better  for  it  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  am  better  and  happier  now,  though  I  went 
to  church  with  an  aching  heart."  "  It  is  well  to 
loose  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  ties,  and  suffer  it 
to  soar  away  to  that  point  in  eternity  when  JEIIO- 
5 


50  M  K  M  O  R  I  A  L  . 

VATI  existed  alone.  Then  were  all  possible  events 
of  time  decreed  by  that  mighty  Mind.  The  path 
of  the  planets  was  mapped  out,  and  that  of  the  least 
grain  of  sand;  and  in  those  same  paths  must  thej 
move  with  undeviating  exactness,  as  if  they  had 
beqn  placed  in  iron  grooves.  Not  an  atom  floats 
in  the  sunbeam,  but  that,  from  all  eternity,  had  its 
curious  revolving  and  intricate  way  fixed.  Not 
the  smallest  animalcule  upon  it,  which  born  ai 
noon  perishes  before  night,  but  that  had  from 
eternity  arranged  for  it  by  this  Infinite  mind,  the 
exact  way  in  which  its  opening  month  should  be 
filled.  Not  one  of  us,  but  that  had  our  memoirs 
then  written  in  His  mighty  book.  We  were  of 
consequence  enough  then  to  have  every  plan  and 
event  of  our  lives  fixed;  the  moment  of  our  birth, 
our  names,  the  day  of  our  death  —  all,  were  then 
fixed.  Have  we  a  secret  sorrow  we  would  no* 
whisper  out  —  it  is  not  the  result  of  accident. 
Every  tear  that  chases  its  fellow  tear  down  the 
cheek  has  been  counted — just  so  many  shall  fall, 
and  not  one  more.  Every  sigh  has  been  num- 
bered, and  just  so  many  shall  be  sent,  and  not  on* 
more.  Let  us  raise  our  drcoping  and  weary  heads 
and  repose  them  safely  on  fixed  Eternal  Purpose. 
Like  children  in  the  arms  of  everlasting  Love, 
let  us  repose  without  a  fear.  We  can  put  on  these 


MEMORIAL.  51 

fire-proof  garments,  and  though  the  furnace  be 
seven  times  heated,  the  smell  of  fire  shall  not  pass 
over  them. 

"  I  never  could  understand  or  divine,  before,  my 
daim  upon  the  Deity's  overruling  care.  Now  I 
do  get  a  glimpse  of  it  —  enough  to  make  me  feel 
like  an  infant  in  its  mother's  arms.  Every  event, 
of  every  day,  of  every  hour,  is  unalterably  fixed. 
Each  day  is  but  the  turning  over  a  new  leaf  of  my 
history  already  written  by  the  finger  of  God,  — 
every  letter  of  it.  Should  I  wish  to  rewrite  —  to 
alter  —  one  ?  Oh,  No  !  no  ! !  no ! ! !  " 

At  about  the  same  time,  in  another  connection, 
•he  writes:  "I  do  like  John  Newton's  Letters — 
the  sincere  piety  —  the  calm  reliance  on  God, 
which  they  breathe.  There  is  something  majestic 
in  hif  views  of  life,  his  firm  consciousness  that 
every  event,  great  and  small,  is  directly  ordered 
and  controlled  by  such  a  Deity.  How  beautifully 
he  speaks  of  affliction  and  the  death  of  his  wife ! 
What  a  different  place  such  a  spirit  makes  of  this 
world  !  How  I  wish  I  were  worthy  to  possess  it!" 

The  very  powerful  effect  of  this  doctrine,  thus 
vivified  in  her  mind,  was  not  transitory.  The  doc- 
trine, with  the  whole  group  of  truths  kindred  to  it, 
from  that  time  took  a  permanent  place  in  her  af- 
fections. It  was  '  as  an  anchor  to  her  soul,  sure 
and  steadfast.'  It  gave  her  new  conceptions  of  the 


52  MEMORIAL. 

value  of  existence.  In  subsequent  year?,  allusions 
to  it  became  habitual  in  her  expressions  of  re- 
ligious experience.  In  times  of  severe  affliction 
especially,  her  feelings  seemed  to  cluster  around  it, 
seeking  refuge  in  its  strong  holds.  Her  constitu- 
tional despondency  rendered  it  often  invaluable  to 
her.  To  her  '  aching  heart'  it  was  '  as  the  shadow 
of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.' 

THE  life  which  she  had  thus  far  led,  had  been 
one  of  comparative  seclusion.  A  quiet  country  vil- 
lage had  been  her  home.  With  the  single  exception 
of  the  period  she  spent  in  Mr.  Abbott's  family,  she 
had  not  been  long  absent  from  her  father's  house, 
Her  mind  and  heart  had  been  developed  {in  the 
thoughtful  atmosphere  created  by  the  literary 
institutions  around  her.  This  had  been  well  for 
her.  It  had  given  a  strength  to  her  character, 
which  she  could  scarcely  have  gained  elsewhere. 
Even  the  confinement  of  a  sick  chamber,  and  the 
comparative  isolation  to  which  years  of  convales- 
cence had  consigned  her,  had  been  not  all  evil. 
She  had  been  thrown  back  from  the  world  upon 
her  own  resources  of  thought.  She  had  been 
led  to  sound  the  depths  of  her  own  heart.  She 
had  communed  much  with  God.  The  mysterious- 
ness  of  God's  dealings  with  her,  had  led  her  to 
think  much  of  the  principles  of  His  government. 


MEMORIAL.  53 

Her  first  crude  views  of  a  religious  life  had  ma- 
tured simultaneously  with  her  growth  in  Christian 
knowledge;  her  conscientious  mistakes  being  recti- 
fied as  she  advanced  to  a  more  intelligent  faith. 
The  discipline  had  been  severe  ;  she  had  suffered 
much ;  the  marks  of  its  severity  were  destined 
never  to  be  wholly  effaced  in  this  world.  But, 
under  God,  it  had  made  her  what  she  was. 

"  So.  the  foundations  of  [her]  mind  were  laid." 

But  the  time  had  come  for  her  to  go  forth  inio  a 
broader  theatre. 

She  was  married  to  Rev.  Austin  Phelps,  then 
pastor  of  the  Pine  Street  Church,  Boston,  in  the 
Autumn  of  1842,  and  she  resided  in  that  city  until 
the  Spring  of  1848.  These  five  or  six  years  of 
residence  in  Boston,  she  regarded  as  the  happiest, 
and  in  some  respects,  as  the  most  profitable,  years 
df  her  life.  The  change  affected  her  character  fa- 
vorably, in  part  because  it  was  a  change.  It  in- 
troduced her  to  new  varieties  of  human  nature  and 
to  new  modes  of  life.  She  was  brought  by  it  more 
constantly  than  before  into  contact  with  life  —  with 
men,  women,  and  children,  as  they  are  in  a  busy, 
and  on  the  whole  a  happy,  world.  It  added  to  the 
lessons  of  seclusion,  those  of  society,  and  to  the 
discipline  of  study,  that  of  action.  It  was  a  change 
of  moral  climate,  which,  just  at  that  time,  her  con- 
5* 


54  MEMORIAL. 

stitutional  temperament  greatly  needed.  She  felt  it 
through  her  whole  being,  and  was  happier  and  bet- 
ter for  it.  She  began  soon  to  be  sensible  of  an  in- 
creasing sympathy  with  human  life.  Even  her 
tastes  as  respects  the  fine  arts  were  insensibly  mod- 
ified. A  fondness  grew  upon  her  for  those  works  of 
art  which  represented  living  character,  rather  than 
for  those  which  represented  only  material  nature. 
In  a  letter  written  from  her  birth-place,  a  few  years 
after  her  removal  to  Boston,  she  writes,  "  Ando- 
ver  is  looking  most  delightfully.  The  birds  sing, 
and  the  cool  winds  are  refreshing,  and  the  eye  is 
filled  with  beauty.  As  I  looked  out  last  evening 
on  these  arching  elms  lighted  up  by  the  moon  — 
forming  a  bower  fit  for  a  poet's  home  —  I  could  not 
resist  the  feeling,  that  the  scene  had  become  to  me 
like  only  a  gorgeous  picture.  I  could  appreciate  it,  I 
could  love  it,  but  there  was  a  soul  wanting" 

Very  similar  to  this,  was  the  effect  of  the  change 
upon  her  religious  character.  The  ordinary  expe- 
rience of  Christians  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life 
was  new  to  her,  and  she  became  much  interested 
in  observing  it.  She  found  her  own  soul  insensi- 
bly sympathizing  with  it.  She  would  often  speak 
of  its  simple-hearted  manifestations  with  a  glad 
surprise,  as  if  in  the  plain  unlettered  stranger 
whose  words  were  of  the  Saviour,  she  had  sudden 
ly  found  a  friend.  "  It  does  me  good,"  she  wouk 


MEMOKIAL.  55 

frequently  say,  on  returning  from  the  weekly 
church-meeting,  "  to  hear  these  people  talk.  They 
epeak  so  feelingly  and  so  honestly  what  they  think 
and  what  they  want."  Respect  for  the  common 
developments  of  Christian  character  and  modes 
of  Christian  speech,  became  a  very  positive  fea- 
ture of  her  own  piety.  Few  things  could  rouse 
her  indignation  more  quickly,  than  to  hear  them 
spoken  of  slightingly.  More  than  once  has  her 
eye  lighted  up  and  her  cheek  glowed  with  the  zeal 
ehe  felt  in  vindicating  them  from  undeserved  con- 
tempt. She  made  no  secret  of  her  own  readiness 
to  sit  as  a  learner  at  the  feet  of  any  who  seemed 
to  know  the  love  of  Christ.  So  strong  did  her 
sympathy  with  the  common  Christian  mind  be- 
come, that  she  acquired  an  enthusiasm  bordering 
upon  reverence,  for  the  work  of  the  Pastoral  office. 
It  was  a  severe  trial  to  her  feelings,  when  her 
husband  exchanged  that  office  for  a  Professorship 
at  Andover. 

Yet  she  was  accustomed  to  regard  herself  as  a 
recipient  rather  than  a  doer  of  good,  in  the  posi- 
tion she  held  as  a  Pastor's  wife.  The  extreme 
sensitiveness  of  her  nature  rendered  it  impossible 
for  her  to  perform  some  services,  which  are  com- 
monly regarded  as  the  duties  of  such  a  position. 
The  infirmity  which  she  had  lamented  in  her  earlier 
Christian  life,  embarrassed  her  still.  She  could 


56 


MEMORIAL. 


not  speak,  directly  or  indirectly,  of  her  religious 
experience,  except  to  her  most  intimate  compan- 
ions ;  nor,  indeed,  at  all  times  to  them.  Any  duty 
which  was  expressive  of  personal  religious  feeling, 
affected  her  so  painfully  as  to  render  naturalness 
and  truthfulness  in  its  performance  impracticable. 
Her  physical  constitution,  and  all  her  early  and 
long-rooted  habits  of  mind  were  unfavorable  to  any 
effort  she  might  make,  of  such  a  nature.  To  these 
was  added  the  unaffected  lowliness  of  her  judg- 
ment of  her  own  religious  character.  She  seemed 
to  herself  unfit  to  stand  as  a  guide  to  others.  The 
humblest  of  her  fellow  Christians  seemed  to  her 
to  possess  higher  qualifications  for  such  a  position 
than  she  had.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  speak 
of  herself  as  a  Christian.  SLe  would  sometimes 
write  that  which  implied  that  she  thought  herself 
euch,  but  her  nearest  friend  never  heard  her  say 
it.  Her  lips  refused  to  utter  that  which,  in  her 
conceptions  of  it,  had  a  sacred  significance.  An 
imperative  instinct  of  heniature  bade  her  to  stand 
aside,  and  permit  others  to  do  what,  if  she  had 
found  it  practicable,  would  have  devolved,  by  right 
of  position,  on  her.  She  did  not  now,  any  more 
than  in  earlier  life,  regard  this  peculiarity  of  her 
religious  temperament  with  leniency.  She  was 
quite  severe  enough  in  her  judgment  of  it.  In 
writing  about  it  on  one  occasion  she  says, "  it  seems 


MEMORIAL.  57 

as  if  it  arose  from  the  very  make  of  my  mind. 
Those  who  would  flatter  me,  would  call  it  sensibil- 
ity. But  it  is  owing  to  a  weak  faith,  and  my 
slow  progress  in  the  Divine  life."  She  did  not 
content  herself  with  a  severe  judgment  of  her  in- 
firmity —  she  resolved  that  it  should  be  overcome. 
A  particular  duty,  which  was  the  severest  test  of 
it  that  could  well  be  devised,  had  attracted  her  at- 
tention, her  own  thoughts  having  guided  her  to 
the  conviction  that  it  was  her  duty.  After  many 
weeks  of  secret  struggling  with  herself,  she  re- 
solved to  go  and  do  what  God  seemed  to  bid  her 
do.  When  the  dreaded  day  arrived,  she  devoted 
the  morning  to  secret  prayer,  and  without  inform- 
ing any  friend  of  her  intention,  went  out  in  the  af- 
ternoon to  make  trial  of  her  resolution.  The  oc- 
currences of  that  afternoon  are  not  known  to  the 
•writer  of  these  pages.  She  returned  home  una- 
ble to  speak  of  them,  having  lost  all  consciousness 
of  them,  through  the  severity  of  their  effect  on  her 
physical  system.  Her  duty  in  respect  to  that  class 
of  religious  exercises  was  done. 

There  are  struggles  in  the  unwritten  experience 
of  many  a  sensitive  mind,  which  are  not  often  ap- 
preciated in  the  estimate  men  form  of  them,  but 
which  He  who  '  knoweth  our  frame,'  numbers  with 
the  last  words  of  martyrs. 

This  period  of  her  residence  in  Boston  was 


58  MEMORIAL. 

marked  by  a  further  development  of  her  tastes 
and  power  as  a  -writer.  Previously  to  this  time  she 
had  written  much  in  the  form  of  articles  for  news- 
papers and  magazines,  and  children's  books.  She 
had  invariably  published  her  writings  anonymous- 
ly ;  and  when  they  were  once  published,  she 
thought  little  more  of  them.  There  are  scattered 
through  several  periodicals,  and  on  the  shelves  of 
the  American  S.  School  Union,  and  the  Mass. 
Sab.  School  Society,  many  of  the  productions  of 
her  pen,  which  it  is  impossible  now  to  identify  as 
hers.  She  herself  was  often  unable  to  recognize 
•with  confidence  her  own  volumes,  after  years  had 
passed  since  she  wrote  them.  She  has  several 
times  been  seen  bending  over  the  counter  of  a 
bookstore,  in  perplexity  as  to  the  authorship  of 
«ome  little  book  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  seen> 
ing  to  detect  some  familiar  traces  of  her  former 
self,  and  yet  unable  at  last  to  decide  whether  she 
were  the  author  of  it  or  not.  Her  own  accouni 
of  her  earlier  writings,  as  given  in  subsequent 
years,  renders  it  probable  that  not  more  than  one 
third  of  the  little  books  she  has  published,  can  be 
now  distinguished  as  hers. 

Almost  all  that  she  had  written  before  taking 
up  her  residence  in  Boston,  had  been  of  an  ele- 
mentary character,  for  children ;  and  this  still  con- 
tinued to  be  her  favorite  department  of  literary 


M  E  M  O  R  I  A  L .  59 

effort.  But  her  observation  of  more  mature  cha- 
racter gradually  led  her  to  write  for  older  readers. 
Composition  had  become  a  daily  habit.  She  be- 
came unhappy,  and  even  desponding  as  to  her 
Christian  hope,  if  her  mind  were  long  deprived  of 
its  customary  gratification  at  her  writing  desk. 
Every  new  class  of  minds  that  were  brought  under 
her  observation,  seemed  to  suggest  to  her  new 
themes  with  which  to  fill  her  portfolio.  Thus,  her 
intercourse  with  the  people  of  her  husband's 
Charge,  interested  her  in  writing  upon  the  Pasto- 
ral Relation.  Her  observation  of  the  poverty  of 
a  city,  directed  her  attention  to  that  class  of  writ- 
ings which  are  designed  to  elevate  the  poor.  Th« 
cares  of  domestic  life  sprung  up  around  her  into 
homely  narratives  of  the  common,  but  not  often 
written,  experiences  of  housekeepers.  Her  domes- 
tics were  always  objects  of  great  interest  to  her, 
and  more  than  one  of  her  little  books,  she  wrote 
for  them.  She  kept  a  journal  of  the  infancy  of 
her  children,  preserving  thus  all  the  little  incidents 
which  usually  form  the  materials  of  "  Mothers? 
Stories."  Distinct  from  this  was  her  "  Family 
Journal,"  consecrated  to  the  more  private  experi- 
ences in  which  her  family  shared.  This  journal 
was  subjected  to  review  on  certain  choice  anniver- 
saries, and  in  her  affections  stood  next  to  the  Fami- 
ly Bible.  If  she  lost  a  friend,  she  loved  to 


60  MEMORIAL. 

express  her  sense  of  the  affliction  by  writing  some- 
thing which  should  portray  that  friend's  character. 
She  tried  her  skill  in  several  of  these  modes,  with- 
out at  first  entertaining  any  idea  of  publishing 
what  she  wrote. 

The  study  of  human  character  became  more 
than  ever  her  untiring  occupation.  She  took 
great  delight  in  her  daily  rambles  through  the 
metropolis.  The  hours  thus  spent  were  her  most 
studious  hours.  She  would  go  out  of  her  way  to 
walk  in  the  thoroughfare,  where  she  could  see  life 
in  its  greatest  variety.  She  would  often  pause  in 
the  street  to  watch  the  sports  of  a  group  of  chil- 
dren. She  could  draw  a  picture  of  the  young  girl 
she  saw  behind  the  counter,  or  the  trio  she  met  at  a 
confectionery.  She  could  characterize  and  carica- 
ture, with  pen  or  crayon,  the  motley  company  she 
encountered  in  an  omnibus.  The  busy  hum  of 
voices  continually  dropped  something  which  her 
quick  ear  appropriated,  storing  together  the  aphor- 
ism of  gray-haired  wisdom  with  the  prattle  of  a  child 
at  a  toy-shop  window,  and  the  harangue  of  a  truck- 
man to  his  horses.  She  would  pay  a  street-beggar 
for  a  five  minutes'  conversation ;  and  a  talk  with 
an  apple-woman  on  Boston  Common,  was  a  treat 
for  the  day.  She  has  been  known  to  sit  for  hours 
observing  the  ways  of  an  emigrant  party  in  the 
steerage  of  a  steamboat ;  and  on  one  occasion  she 


MEMORIAL.  61 

became  so  absorbed  by  her  interest  in  a  little 
Swiss  child,  that  she  could  scarcely  be  dissuaded 
from  making  an  attempt  to  obtain  leave  to  adopt 
it  as  her  own. 

She  strove  to  aid  still  farther  the  improvement 
of  her  own  tastes  in  writing,  by  the  direction  she 
gave  to  her  study  of  books  at  this  time.  Thus, 
she  at  one  period  read  largely  the  works  of  seve- 
ral popular  writers  of  fiction.  She  did  this  with 
the  eye  of  a  critic,  intent  on  discovering  where  laj 
the  secret  of  their  influence.  The  results  of  het 
criticism,  as  the  has  recorded  them  among  her  pri- 
vate papers,  are  exceedingly  interesting,  as  exhi- 
bitions of  her  industry  in  disciplining  her  own 
mind.  With  the  same  intent,  she  devoted  much 
time  to  the  study  of  the  Old  English  Poets.  Du- 
ring one  winter,  she  read  with  great  enthusiasm 
Spenser's  '  Faerie  Queene ';  and  displayed  daily  at 
her  tea-table  the  gems  she  had  selected  during  the 
day  from  the  royal  treasury.  For  several  winters 
in  succession  she  enticed  her  husband  from  his 
study,  at  least  one  evening  of  each  week,  for  the 
reading  of  Shakspeare  at  their  fireside.  She  was 
commonly  the  reader  on  these  '  Shakspeare  eve- 
nings ; '  and  one  must  have  heard  the  vivacious  in- 
tonations of  her  voice,  and  seen  the  changes  of  her 
speaking  countenance,  to  understand  fully  the  in- 
telligence and  sympathy  of  her  communion  with 
6 


62  MEMORIAL. 

the  great  artist  of  human  character.  More  than 
all  else,  however,  she  valued  as  works  of  art  the 
narrative  portions  of  the  Bible.  These  she  often 
adduced  as  the  most  perfect  models  of  narrative 
composition.  Among  her  manuscripts  are  found 
criticisms  upon  some  of  these,  or  rather  studies  of 
them,  in  which  she  has  noted  the  peculiarities  which 
seemed  to  her  to  constitute  the  charm  of  scriptural 
narration.  Her  own  simple  Saxon  style  was  de- 
rived in  part  from  this  source.  At  the  same  time, 
she  gathered  from  her  miscellaneous  reading  all 
the  valuable  hints  she  met  with  respecting  the  best 
modes  of  writing,  and  these  she  recorded  also  for 
subsequent  reference.  Thus  laboriously  did  she 
strive  to  form  her  own  tastes,  and  develop  what- 
ever faculty  she  might  possess  in  the  use  of  her  pen. 
It  was  during  this  period  of  her  residence  in 
Boston,  that  her  socinl  character  was  first  fully 
developed.  How  can  this  be  portrayed  ?  Yet,  it 
was  in  truth  her  crowning  excellence.  She  pos- 
sessed a  rare  combination  of  literary  tastes  and 
literary  industry,  with  the  more  unpretending  vir- 
tues of  a  woman.  Her  attachment  to  her  friends 
partook  of  the  mingled  intensity  and  endurance 
which  characterized  all  her  sensibilities.  The  loss 
of  a  friend,  either  by  death  or  otherwise,  was  to  her 
a  life-long  affliction.  The  society  of  those  .she  loved 
was  as  necessary  to  her  as  her  food.  There  is  no; 


MEMORIAL.  63 

one  of  the  few  friends  with  whom  she  was  intimate, 
to  whose  influence  she  has  not  ascribed  some  defi- 
nite and  permanent  improvement  of  her  own  char- 
acter, for  which  she  felt  grateful  to  them,  —  so  gen- 
erously had  her  affections  responded  to  theirs,  and 
so  trustfully  had  her  heart  opened  itself  at  their  gen- 
tle bidding.  A  few  names  were  inscribed  on  her 
memory,  as  a  constellation  whose  genial  influence 
ruled  her  destiny.  Whenever  one  of  these  chosen 
friends  passed  away,  she  invariably  committed  to 
paper  her  fresh  remembrances  of  the  lost  one. 
Several  such  tributes  to  the  memory  of  the  depart- 
ed, are  found  among  her  papers,  written  for  no  pur- 
pose but  to  give  vent  to  bereaved  affection  which 
could  not  be  suppressed.  Most  touching  words, 
which  probably  she  never  summoned  courage  to 
speak  to  them  while  they  lived,  she  thus  breathed 
forth  to  their  voiceless  spirits  as  they  hovered  over 
her. 

In  the  ordinary  manifestations  of  her  social 
character,  there  was  a  rare  mingling  of  freedom 
with  reserve,  of  self-respect  with  generous  trust. 
None  could  more  successfully  than  she  repel  by  a 
look,  anything  that  jarred  upon  her  feelings  ;  yet 
none  could  respond  more  gracefully  to  an  expres- 
sion of  natural  refinement.  She  was  independent 
in  her  opinions  and  made  no  secret  of  them  ;  yet, 
where  she  recognized  the  ability,  and  therefore 


64  MEMORIAL. 

the  right,  to  correct  her  judgment  if  it  were  wrong, 
she  was  as  docile  as  a  child.  She  considered  pride 
as  the  besetting  sin  of  her  nature ;  yet,  she  was 
went  to  exhibit  the  most  perfect  abandonment  of 
self  to  the  influence  of  delicate  kindness  on  the 
part  of  others.  She  loved  to  go  among  the  people 
of  her  husband's  pastoral  charge,  as  one  of  them, 
restrained  by  no  '  proprieties  of  position,'  but  free 
to  rejoice  with  them  as  her  prompt  sympathies 
bade  her.  Their  generous  attentions  were  her 
constant  delight.  Their  gifts  she  would  receive 
with  a  child's  artlessness  in  the  manifestation  of 
her  pleasure.  If  the  gift  were  but  a  flower,  or  a 
cluster  of  grapes,  she  seemed  always  gladdened  by 
it  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  gold.  She  possessed 
very  much  of  her  father's  versatility  of  talent  in 
conversation.  She  had  cultivated  her  mind  in  this 
respect,  with  great  care.  When  her  spirit  was 
fully  roused,  her  words  possessed  a  magnetic  power. 
There  was  no  class  of  society  which  she  deemed 
beneath  her  or  above  her,  and  none  with  which  she 
could  not,  from  the  heart  sympathize  in  something, 
and  therefore  be  at  her  ease.  This  apparent  '  di- 
versity of  gifts'  was  the  charm  of  her  presence. 
Even  the  stranger,  who  partook  for  but  a  day  of 
her  hospitality,  went  away  to  speak,  years  after- 
wards, of  '  her  unaffected  grace  and  dignity  and 
sweetness  of  manner  and  pious  conversation.'  In 


MEMORIAL.  65 

her  own  house,  she  strove  to  spread  around  her  an 
atmosphere  of  cheerful  piety.  This  was  an  object 
of  much  solicitude  with  her.  It  was  a  matter  of 
most  sacred  principle  in  her  plan  of  life,  to  suffer 
nothing  to  come  between  her  and  her  family.  "  She 
would  be  a  true  wife  and  mother,  if  nothing  else." 
Her  literary  pursuits,  and  the  gratification  of  her 
taste  for  the  fine  arts,  were  religiously  subordinated 
to  her  duties  "  at  home."  This  was  not  a  mere 
sentiment  in  her  mind  —  it  was  her  daily  study  ; 
it  cost  her  thought  and  labor,  and  was  achieved 
only  by  an  indomitable  resolution.  With  her 
feeble  health,  to  perform  with  her  books  and  her 
pen  and  her  pencil,  all  that  \vas  necessary  to  satisfy 
her  own  mind,  and  yet  to  preside  over  the  house- 
hold of  a  pastor,  was  not  —  a  pleasant  song.  She 
accomplished  it  by  the  most  rigid  systematizing  of 
her  duties  from  morning  to  night.  She  remem- 
bered the  "  wood-house  chamber"  as  seen  from  the 
"  western  window"  in  her  father's  house.  Every 
hour  had  its  allotted  duty,  and  the  duty  was  done, 
Her  plans  for  weeks  in  advance  were  all  recorded 
with  her  pen.  Among  her  manuscripts  are  now 
found,  "  Memoranda  of  Housekeeping,"  in  which 
are  written  her  plans  for  the  work  of  her  servants 
and  for  her  own  —  even  weekly  kt  bills  of  fare,"  in 
which  are  arranged  the  order  of  every  meal  for 
the  we.ek.  There  are  found,  also,  fragments  of 
6* 


66  MEMORIAL. 

journals,  in  which  are  recorded  the  history  of  ex- 
periments in  housekeeping  and  their  success  or 
failure.  That  untiring  pen  seems  to  have  per- 
formed an  almost  incredible  amount  of  service. 
The  result  was,  that  she  accomplished  her  design. 
She  for  many  years  could  reserve  habitually  two 
hours  each  day  —  no  more,  no  less  —  for  her 
writing  table,  and  keep  in  constant  progress  her 
studies  and  her  miscellaneous  reading,  and  find  her 
recreation  in  her  pencil,  and  yet  the  order  of  her 
house  was  like  clockwork  ;  her  children  never 
showed  the  want  of  a  mother's  care ;  her  home 
was  never  the  less  a  home  on  account  of  her  passion- 
ate attachment  to  literature  and  art.  The  sincerity 
of  the  religious  convictions  which  she  carried  into 
these  household  plans,  she  has  undesignedly  illus- 
trated in  her  little  New  Year's  Story  — "  The 
Angel  over  the  Right  Shoulder,"  —  and  her  jealous 
vigilance  over  her  own  tastes,  lest  they  should  en- 
croach on  the  comfort  of  those  who  were  dependent 
upon  her,  is  intimated  by  another  of  her  Home- 
sketches  —  "  The  Husband  of  a  Blue." 

It  was  the  struggle  of  her  life  to  control  the 
fickleness  of  her  physical  temperament,  and  rise 
above  despondency.  "  Nobody  knowrs,"  she  would 
often  say,  "  how  I  do  struggle  for  it."  It  was  her 
habitual  fear  that  her  family  might  suffer  for  the 
want  of  a  cheerful,  sunny  home.  This  is  a  dis- 


MEMORIAL.  67 

closure,  however,  which  will  surprise  the  majority 
of  her  friends  —  so  vigilant  was  she  in  watching 
her  own  varying  moods,  and  so  successful  in 
breathing  the  spirit  of  joy  around  her.  Her 
presence  in  any  group  was  almost  invariably  a 
guarantee  of  vivacious  and  genial  conversation.  She 
often  concealed  physical  infirmity,  that  she  might 
come  to  her  little  home  circle  with  a  cheerful  look. 
'With  a  heavy  heart' she  would 'sing  songs'  for 
them.  She  bestowed  much  attention  on  the  cele- 
bration of  festival  days,  for  her  children's  sake. 
By  gathering  around  her  whatever  could  inno- 
cently please  the  eye  or  the  ear,  she  made  the 
place  where  she  was,  the  abode  of  all  that  was 
attractive  to  their  young  hearts. 

May  the  writer  who  offers  this  tribute  to  her 
worth,  be  permitted  so  far  to  overstep  the  limits 
which  perhaps  ought  to  restrain  him,  as  to  insert 
here  one  or  two  extracts  from  her  papers,  which 
will  give  a  glimpse  more  truthful  than  other  words 
can  give  of  her,  as  she  was  '  at  home.'  The  first 
is  from  a  paper  addressed  to  him  on  the  occasion 
of  a  family  festival,  and  containing  her  review  of 
the  preceding  year.  "  This  past  year,"  she  wrote. 
"  has  been  a  most  eventful  one  to  me.  All  at  once, 
from  many  quarters,  I  have  met  with  so  much 
new  encouragement  to  write,  that  it  has  half- 
bewitched  me.  First  of  all  came  my  *  *  *  story. 


68  MEMORIAL. 

I  felt  about  this,  that  if  I  could  only  get  it  pub- 
lished in  the  *  *  *  ,  and  re.id  it  to  you  with- 
out your  knowing  that  I  wrote  it,  I  should  feel 
perfectly  happy.  I  heard  nothing  from  it  for 
several  weeks.  One  evening  I  took  up  the  *  *  * 
carelessly,  and  saw  a  notice  that  it  was  received 
and  would  soon  appear.  I  watched  for  it  for 
several  months,  and  had  almost  given  it  up,  when 
one  Saturday  evening  I  stumbled  upon  it.  I  did 
read  it  to  you ;  you  did  not  know  a  word  aboul 
who  wrote  it ;  you  seemed  much  interested ;  you 
listened  to  the  end  without  speaking,  and  then  you 
said,  '  Well,  somebody  wrote  that  who  knew  how.' 
I  felt  well  repaid.  I  thought  I  had  quite  reached 
the  goal  of  my  desires,  and  now  *  *  *  " 

The  other  extract  is  a  narrative  criticism  of  a 
story  written  by  a  popular  foreign  authoress.  The 
criticism  is  thrown  into  the  epistolary  form  and 
addressed  to  her.  It  was  originally  written  with 
no  fictitious  design,  but  for  some  reason  it  remained 
in  the  writer's  hands.  It  is  as  follows :  — 

"  BOSTON,  MAY  — ,  184-. 
*  To  Miss  Frederika  Bremer :  — 

"If  one  had  a  child  in  a  distant  country,  a  letter, 
even  from  a  stranger,  which  told  of  the  child's 
health  and  happiness  and  every-day  employments, 
could  not  but  give  pleasure  to  his  parent.  I  sup- 
pose an  author  looks  upon  her  writings  with  a  pa- 


MEMORIAL.  69 

rental  eye ;  and  though  they  wander  to  a  new  world 
and  put  on  a  strange  costume  and  speak  in  an  un- 
known tongue,  still  she  cannot  forget  that  they  are 
hers,  and  it  cannot  be  uninteresting  to  her  to  hear 
how  they  are  received  and  how  they  demean  them- 
selves. I  have  written  all  this  in  the  opening  of 
my  letter  to  Miss  Bremer,  that  it  may  serve  me 
as  an  apology  for  all  that  I  mean  to  write,  and  I 
place  it  before  me  as  a  shield,  if  my  letter  should 
be  received  as  an  intruder.  It  comes  simply  to 
tell  thee  of  the  pleasure  which  sprang  up  around 
one  single  fireside  far  away  in  a  strange  land, 
through  the  timely  introduction  of  one  of  these, 
thy  brain-children.  '  The  Neighbors,'  it  is  called. 
It  chanced  to  make  our  acquaintance  at  a  time 
when  it  was  a  mo<t  welcome  visitor.  I  say  '  our,' 
for  we  had  started  a  little  home  of  our  own.  This 
home  was  in  the  city,  and  the  husband  being  a  pro- 
fessional man,  the  day  was  all  filled  up  with  pro- 
fessional duties  on  his  part,  and  with  calling  and 
callers,  on  mine.  When  the  rare  treat  of  an  un- 
occupied evening  came,  and  we  had  finished  the 
discussion  of  the  day  around  our  tea-table,  then  we 
drew  up  our  stand  before  a  bright  fire,  rolled  up 
the  sofa,  and  lighted  the  study-lamp.  I  took  my 
work,  and  the  gentleman  took  '  The  Neighbors,' 
and  read  aloud.  I  should  like  to  have  had  you 
see  the  enthusiasm  with  which  we  followed  the 
newly  married  pair — how  readily  our  sympathies 
were  enlisted  for  them  —  how  I  had  halt' a  mind 
to  fall  in  love  with  the  rough,  good-humored  Bear 
—  how  we  laughed  till  we  cried,  at  the  untiring 
vivacity  of  his  little  wife.  I  would  believe  that 
it  was  all  true,  and  that  the  little  wife  had  in  reality 


70  MEMORIAL. 

sent  us  her  experience  over  the  waters,  that  we 
might  look  into  the  future  with  a  calm  trust.  It 
must  be  no  common  talent  that  can  so  accurately 
describe  from  observation  —  rather,  it  is  a  high 
order  of  instinct.  I  thank  Bear  and  his  wife  for 
their  truthful  history.  '  Ma  Chore  Mere'  is  a 
character  which  we  never  meet  here  ;  yet  some  of 
her  wise  sayings  have  already  passed  into  proverbs 
among  '  The  Neighbors'  friends.  There  was  one 
thing,  however,  which  our  good  New-Englanders 
shake  their  heads  at  —  it  was  her  fiddling  for  her 
servants  at  a  dance  on  the  Sabbath.  Our  Sundays 
are  sacred  days ;  we  keep  them  as  days  of  rest 
from  all  worldly  employments,  and  such  recreations 
are  never  tolerated.  The  capricious  little  Ella  we 
laughed  at,  and  yet  we  could  not  help  liking  her. 
Serena  we  thought  too  good ;  it  seemed  as  if  she 
belonged  to  another  sphere.  Bruno,  I  could  not 
admire,  although  in  the  scene  of  reconciliation  with 
his  mother,  I  hid  my  face,  for  I  half  thought  I  was 
too  old  to  cry  over  such  stories.  Yet,  elsewhere, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  a  character  s-o  morbid  and 
passionate.  lie  seemed  at  a  great  distance  from 
the  heroes  who  walk  around  me  in  this  Yankee 
land.  There  was  llagar,  too,  —  I  wished  her  out 
of  the  way  entirely.  She  brought  in  an  element 
of  the  tragic,  which  seemed  poorly  to  suit  the 
healthful  object  of  the  tale. 

"  When  we  had  finished  '  The  Neighbors,'  we 
felt  as  if  we  were  parting  with  a  friend,  and  I 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  return  my  thanks 
to  the  author  of  so  much  innocent  delight. 

"In  our  good  city  of  Boston,  your  books  are 
advertised  in  every  bookstore  window.  They  are 


MEMORIAL.  71 

much  read  here,  and  much  liked.  Miss  Mary 
Howitt  has  given  us  in  beautiful  English,  '  The 
Neighbors,'  and  '  Home.'  These  are  by  far  the 
greatest  favorites  with  us.  In  the  '  H.  Family,' 
and  'The  President's  Daughters,'  there  is  too  much 
spicing  with  German  Philosophy,  and  too  much 
obscurity  as  to  the  real  meaning  of  the  religious 
creed,  to  please  our  more  sober  thinkers.  In  these 
two,  also,  much  more  than  in  the  others,  the  true 
object  of  life,  and  the  true  preparation  for  death, 
are  discussed  in  a  way  which  does  not  harmonize 
with  the  simplicity  of  our  views  of  the  Christian 
faith. 

"  Yet,  for  an  exhibition  of  the  social  virtues, 
elevated  in  their  character,  free  from  selfishness, 
and  made  attractive  to  all  classes  of  readers,  we 
have  had  nothing  for  a  long  time  that  can  be  com- 
pared with  Miss  Bremer'o  stories." 

THE  approach  of  death,  even  in  the  distance, 
«ecms  often  to  be  foreshadowed  by  an  increased 
rapidity  in  the  development  of  character.  So  it 
was,  apparently,  with  her  whose  life  is  here  sketch- 
ed. Her  friends,  in  recalling  the  closing  years  of 
her  sojourn  with  them,  can  see  that  they  were  to 
her  years  of  rapid  intellectual  and  moral  growth. 
There  was  a  quick  blossoming  of  powers  which 
had  long  been  hidden  in  the  bud,  and  which  the 
approach  of  her  life's  autumn  as  quickly  ripened 
into  fruit.  Her  soul  seems  to  have  put  forth  its 
strength,  and  gathered  up  its  immortal  possessions. 


72  MEMORIAL. 

as  if  the  coming  summons  to  depart  had  been  long 
audible. 

She  removed  from  Boston  to  Andover  in  the 
spring  of  1848.  The  change  was  not  an  agree- 
able one  to  her.  It  was  often  an  occasion  of  un- 
happiness,  and  at  times  a  positive  affliction.  Va- 
rious causes  contributed  to  this  result.  She  had 
become  warmly  attached  to  Boston,  to  the  life  of 
a  Pastor's  wife,  to  the  church  with  which  she  had 
been  there  associated,  and  to  personal  friends 
whom  she  had  met  there.  Her  heart  was  bound 
there  with  a  strength  of  tie,  of  which  she  wa?  not 
herself  fully  aware,  till  the  tie  was  broken.  Her 
affections,  never  weak  when  once  called  into  life, 
had  become  rooted  there.  She  wished  for  no 
change,  and  saw  no  inducement  to  change.  Her 
own  convictions  and  habits  of  feeling  respecting 
that  juncture  in  her  life,  are  clearly  intimated  by 
some  of  the  closing  scenes  in  the  "  Peep  at  No, 
Five."  Her  health  was  also  more  than  usually 
feeble  at  the  time  of  her  removal  from  Boston, 
and  continued  so  for  a  year  afterwards.  At  the 
same  time,  affliction  fell  suddenly  upon  her  father, 
and  also  upon  her  husband.  Great  uncertainty 
hung  over  the  future  ;  and  that  seemed  a  dark  day 
to  her  in  which  she  had  bidden  farewell  to  the 
place  where  she  had  passed,  as  she  thought,  her 
happiest  years.  Her  associations  with  place  were 


MEMORIAL.  7d 

naturally  very  strong ;  and  it  was  not  strange  that 
a  return  to  her  birth-place  should,  under  all  the 
circumstances  that  attended  it,  revive  in  some  de- 
gree tLe  affliction  she  had  experienced  there  in 
former  years.  Such  was  the  result. 

On  one  occasion  she  thus  writes  respecting  the 
effects  of  her  return  to  Andover,  viz :  "  Many 
things  about  this  place  do  oppress  me  very  much. 
The  last  years  of  my  life  here  —  years  in  which  I 
thought  and  felt  the  most  deeply  —  mere  not  happy. 
I  had  a  great  many  hours  of  suffering  which  still 
cling  to  certain  spots  and  certain  stales  of  the 
weather  here,  so  that  many  times  they  roll  back 
over  me  with  a  force  that  is  irresistible.  I  carry 
about  with  me  a  sore  and  anxious  heart  so  much 
of  the  time,  that  it  is  almost  the  habitual  state  in 
which  I  exist.  The  life  that  flows  from  this  is  not 
very  sunny  ;  I  already  live  in  the  past." 

It  was  not  the  past,  however,  nor  any  associa- 
tions with  place,  that  created  the  chief  burden  of 
her  spirit  at  this  time.  She  proceeds  to  say: 
u  One  thing,  in  particular,  hangs  over  me  like  a 
pall,  too  often  oppressing  me  with  its  black  shadow; 
it  is,  the  breaking  up  of  my  father's  family.  I  do 
not  know  that  I  can  have  strength  enough  to  live 
here  cheerfully,  when  I  have  only  their  graves  to 
visit.  I  suffer  a  great  deal  also  from  religious  de- 
pression. There  are  times  when  I  almost  abandon 
7 


74  MEMORIAL. 

my  Christian  hope,  and  feel  that  I  ought  not  to  go 
again  to  the  communion  table.  It  seems  to  me  I 
have  no  such  experience  as  other  Christians  have." 
Until  the  question  of  her  husband's  resignation 
of  his  pastoral  charge  in  Boston  was  decided,  she, 
with  her  usual  generosity,  concealed  in  great  mea- 
sure the  foreboding  with  which  she  anticipated  the 
change,  lest  his  decision  should  be  unduly  influ- 
enced by  a  knowledge  of  her  feelings.  AVhen  the 
change  was  made,  it  was  for  a  long  time  the  al- 
most  hourly  struggle  of  her  life  to  resist  the  de- 
pression that  weighed  upon  her  mind.  The  seve- 
rity of  this  struggle  can  scarcely  be  appreciated 
by  those  who  possess  a  more  equable  temperament 
than  hers.  At  times,  darkness  deepened  so  op- 
pressively around  her  soul,  that  direct  intercourse 
with  God  was  the  only  source  of  even  temporary 
relief.  Long  continued  seasons  of  secret  prayer 
became  necessary  to  preserve  a  sufficient  degree 
of  composure  to  enable  her  to  discharge  her  do- 
mestic duties.  During  one  of  these  seasons  of  ex- 
treme dejection,  the  only  instance  occurred  in 
which  she  ever  turned  away  from  the  offer  of  that 
human  sympathy  on  which  she  had  learned  to 
lean.  "  Not  now,"  said  she ;  "  I  must  go  to  the 
Saviour;  there  is  no  one  else  to  whom  I  can  go 
now."  And  she  went,  and  '  drew  near  to  the  thick 
darkness  where  God  was.'  Yet,  a  wrong  impres- 


MEMORIAL.  75 

sion  would  be  received  from  this  narrative,  if  it 
should  be  inferred  that  the  trial  here  referred  to, 
cast  visible  gloom  over  this  period  of  her  life.  It 
was  not  so.  She  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the 
ruling  of  her  own  spirit,  that  but  few  even  of  her 
personal  friends  knew  the  intensity  of  her  trial. 
She  did  not  withdraw  herself  from  society ;  she 
sought  incessant  occupation ;  she  allowed  herself 
but  few  hours  of  solitude  ;  she  forced  herself  into 
plans  of  secret  usefulness.  Here  was  by  no  means 
the  dejection  of  a  prostrate,  inactive  soul.  Such 
was  the  readiness  of  her  sympathies,  that  she  did 
succeed  in  really  enjoying  the  happiness  that  she 
diffused  around  her.  It  is  doubtless  true  also,  that 
in  the  expression  of  her  feelings  as  recorded  above, 
she  has  represented  her  experience  as  it  seemed 
to  her  in  her  hours  of  solitary  reflection.  It  was 
probably  varied  in  the  reality  by  her  busy  and  gen- 
erous life.  She  had,  moreover,  a  very  high  stand- 
ard of  Christian  cheerfulness  in  her  mind.  An 
ordinary  degree  of  happiness  in  this  life  did  not 
content  her.  So  vivid  were  her  conceptions  of 
God,  as  a  God  of  Love,  and  so  radiant  in  her 
view  was  the  light  which  the  work  of  Christ  has 
thrown  over  this  world,  and  so  intimate  was  her 
own  heart  with  Him  as  with  a  personal  friend, 
that  she  experienced  a  sense  of  guilt  if  she  did 
riot  enjoy  life.  She  reproached  herself  for  varia- 


76  MEMORIAL. 

tions  of  feeling  about  which  many  woulu  oe  less 
scrupulous.  "  Rejoice  in  the  Lord  always ;  and 
again  I  say,  Rejoice,"  was  a  command  to  which 
she  gave  heed  with  uncompromising  fidelity. 

The  conflict  with  her  desponding  spirits  during 
the  period  now  under  review,  was  almost  entirely 
successful ;  and  it  was  the  probable  occasion  of 
the  very  rapid  development  of  her  character, 
which  soon  began  to  take  place,  and  of  which  she 
herself  was  in  some  degree  sensible.  After  some 
years  had  passed,  she  was  able  to  write  in  the  fol- 
lowing strain  :  —  "  There  are  bright  spots  on  the 
canvas,  after  all.  I  do  not  see  why  my  working 
years  should  not  yet  come,  nor  why  I  should  not 
do  my  work  well.  I  never  can  expect  always  to 
pitch  my  tent  by  the  "still  waters."  But  it  is 
cheering  to  me  that  I  do  see  much  more  clearly 
than  I  did,  what  is  my  duty,  and  that  when  I  am 
thrown  off  the  track,  I  find  my  way  back  sooner. 
All  is  not ;  chaos  and  old  night.'  I  have  a  centre 
to  which  I  can  turn  in  my  flight,  and  where  I  can 
rest;  so  that,  in  my  heart,  I  am  happier  than  I 
was." 

At  a  still  later  date,  she  writes  :  —  "  As  to  the 
great  point  of  contentment  with  life,  I  really  think 
I  have  gained  upon  it.  It  has  been  a  liiing  for 
which  I  have  struggled  and  prayed ;  and  for  the 
most  part,  my  mind  is  at  rest,  and  my  heart  con- 


M  fc  a.  O  K  IAL  .  7? 

tented.  I  think  I  can  say  this  ;  and  what  is  equal- 
ly true,  a  feeling  of  habitual  gratitude  has  gained 
ground  within  me.  I  do  carry  about  with  me,  a 
great  deal  of  the  time,  a  thankful  heart.  I  am  so 
grateful  -  for  the  bright  rallying-points  around 
which  my  thoughts  cluster,  I  make  a  great  effort 
to  keep  them  constantly  in  view.  I  feel  that  I 
should  be  guilty,  not  to  do  so ;  and  month  after 
month,  I  think  I  can  see  that  it  becomes  more  and 
more  natural  to  me  to  look  on  the  bright  side  of 
tilings." 

On  another  occasion,  in  speaking  of  her  chil- 
dren, she  says :  —  "I  do  not  know  how  to  be 
grateful  enough  for  them.  They  have  been  a  God- 
eend  to  me,  —  stars  in  a  dark  night.  1  have  been 
so  afraid  of  loving  them  too  much,  that  I  have 
constantly  brought  home  to  my  heart  the  commis- 
sion, '  Take  this  child,  and  nurse  him  for  me.'  My 
strong  and  habitual  feeling  is,  that  they  are  not 
mine,  —  they  are  lent  to  me.  If  I  can  but  do  my 
whole  duty  to  them,  I  shall  feel  that  my  life's 
work  is  well  done.  I  want  a  cheerful  Christian 
home  for  them  to  grow  up  in.  I  want  them  to  be 
happy  Christians.  I  believe  that  is  the  best  style 
of  piety.  I  suffer  from  the  want  of  a  cheerful 
spirit.  *  *  *  *  Yet,  I  do  think 
I  am  enabled  to  rise  above  my  constitutional 
gloom  better  than  I  once  did.  I  have  many  hap- 
7* 


78  MEMORIAL. 

py  hours,  —  sometimes  whole  days,  —  sometimes 
many  days  together.  I  somehow  am  able  to  feel 
that  much  of  my  despair  has  arisen  from  physical 
derangement.  Better  health,  change  of  scene, 
anything  that  enlivens  me,  seems  to  cknigo,  as 
by  magic,  my  spiritual  prospects.  I  have  found  it 
so,  many  times.  Now,  though  I  have  more  doubts 
and  fears  than  I  wish  I  had,  yet  for  many  months 
I  have  experienced  much  enjoyment.  Sometimes 
I  think  that  if  I  am  ever  to  be  saved,  I  shall  not 
die  until  my  piety,  if  I  have  any,  has  become  more 
mature  and  symmetrical." 

She  was  nearer  the  goal  of  her  desires  than  she 
supposed.  The  last  of  the  above  extracts  was 
written  but  a  little  more  than  a  year  bef.ire  her 
death.  The  growing  maturity  and  symmetry  of 
religious  character  which  she  was  only  beginning 
to  hope  for,  were,  in  the  view  of  her  friend-?,  al- 
ready hers.  They  could  not  but  observe  the  in- 
creasing loveliness  of  her  chastened  spirit.  They 
saw  her  growing  '  faith  and  hope  and  charity.' 
The  change  was  visible  in  her  softened  eye,  and 
in  the  increasing  gentleness  of  her  tones.  The 
doctrines  of  the  Gospel  were  evidently  becoming 
more  precious  than  ever  to  her  heart.  '  iring  the 
last  year  of  her  life,  she  rewrote  entire;  one  of 
her  Sabbath  School  books,  because  the  story  at  the 
first  writing  had  not  clearly  and  precisely  shadow- 


MEMOKIAL.  79 

ed  forth  the  views  of  Regeneration  on  which  she 
had  intended  to  construct  it.  Little  evidences, 
which  cannot  be  recorded,  disclosed  her  deepening 
love  to  the  person  of  the  Saviour.  She  would 
often  speak  of  him  in  terms  of  personal  endear- 
ment, and  yet  with  a  reverence  for  His  divine  na- 
ture, which  was  but  feebly  expressed  by  the  opinion 
she  held,  that  no  painter  should  attempt  to  portray 
in  full  that  countenance  to  which,  as  she  thought, 
no  human  imagination  could  do  justice.  The  books 
she  chose  for  her  devotional  reading,  indicated  her 
sympathy  with  some  of  the  higher  forms  of  Chris- 
tian experience.  Although  she  felt  little  respect 
for  any  exclusive  model  of  Christian  character,  yei 
she  found  much  to  which  her  heart  responded,  in 
the  written  experiences  of  Madame  Guyon  and 
Catherine  Adorna.  These,  together  with  '  Bridges' 
Exposition  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Nineteenth 
Psalm,'  and  her  long  loved  favorite  —  'Jeremy 
Taylor's  Holy  Living  and  Dying'  —  were  her 
constant  companions. 

IL-r  daily  effort  became  more  manifest  and 
more  succes-ful,  to  breathe  the  power  of  holy  prin- 
ciple into  every  purpose  and  action  of  her  life. 
The  graces  of  her  natural  character  blended  them- 
selves more  and  more  genially  with  those  that 
\vere  peculiar  to  her  Christian  experience.  It  was 
instructive  to  see  her,  during  one  hour  of  each 


80  MEMORIAL. 

day,  bending  with   a   countenance   brilliant  with 
emotion,  over  a  painting  which  she  was  executing, 
—  and  perhaps  the  very  next  hour  absorbed  with 
a  different  and  yet  not  less  enthusiasm,  in  taking 
notes  of  her  father's  Commentary  on  the  Apoca- 
lypse.    She  turned  away  to  conceal  her  tears  at 
the  sight  of  a  painting  representing  '  the  scourging 
of  our  Lord,'  and  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  was 
unable  to  banish  the  scene  from  her  mind.   At  the 
same  time,  in  unconscious  imitation  of  His  spirit, 
she  would  go  far  to  carry  a  bundle  of  clothing  to 
a  poor  woman's  child ;  and  would  herself  perform 
some  menial  service,  that  her   domestics   might 
have  an  uninterrupted  hour  for  their  daily  ta^k  in 
learning  to  read  and  write.     Through  all  the  clos- 
ing years  of  her  life,  she  went  month  by  month  to 
a  neighboring  village,  to  superintend  the  interests 
of  a  friendless  girl  from  a  foreign  land,  who  had 
been  disabled  by  an  accident.     She  obtained  for 
her  employment,  and  received  and  disbursed  her 
wages  in  such  manner  as  to  save  for  her  a  little 
fund  against  a  time  of  need.    She  had  long  been 
accustomed  to  seek  out  secret  and  neglected  modes 
7f  doing  good.     On  one  occasion,  a  female  menv 
l>er  of  the  church  had  become  involved  in  a  diffir 
:ulty  which  threatened  to  subject  her  to  the  cenr 
sure  of  her  brethren.     All  the  ordinary  efforts  foi 
i  happy  adjustment  of  it  had  failed.     One,  and 


MEMORIAL.  81 

another,  and  another  of  her  friends  had  withdrawn 
their  sympathy  from  her.  Mrs.  Phelps  requested 
at  last  that  she  might  be  permitted  to  visit  the  un- 
fortunate woman.  It  was  proposed  that  she 
should  go  as  a  committee  of  the  church.  Sht 
promptly  refused.  "  No,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  be  no 
committee.  Let  me  go  as  a  woman  to  her  sister." 
She  went.  Her  woman's  instinct  and  her  Chris- 
tian heart  accomplished  what  a  sterner  fidelity  had 
not  done.  A  single  interview  restored  the  erring 
one  to  confidence,  and  she  still  lives  beloved  for 
her  Christian  virtues.  This  was  a  specimen  also 
of  the  enlarged  charity,  which  had  always  been 
characteristic  of  Mrs.  Phelps's  judgment  of  others, 
and  her  appreciation  of  their  difficulties  in  opinion, 
or  infirmities  in  temperament. 

Yet,  in  these  last  years  of  her  life,  it  was  touch- 
ing to  see  that,  while  this  magnanimity  to  others 
seemed  to  be  almost  daily  enlarging  her  heart,  the 
severity  of  her  judgment  of  herself  increased. 
She  struggled  long  and  hard  to  assure  herself  that 
she  was  honest  in  her  scrutiny  of  her  own  heart. 
She  often  wrote  her  prayers  with  reference  to 
certain  difficult  subjects  of  meditation,  and 
certain  intricate  varieties  of  religious  experi- 
ence, —  so  solicitous  was  she  to  discipline  he) 
mind  to  truthful  expression  in  her  devotions. 
She  was  so  fearful  that  her  private  journal  would 


82  MEMORIAL. 

be  vitiated  by  a  secret  sense  on  ber  part,  cf  the 
possibility  of  its  exposure  to  other  eyes  than  her 
own,  that  whenever  in  writing  it  she  detected  any 
such  thought  in  her  mind,  she  was  accustomed  ii> 
stantly  to  record  some  most  sacred  secret  of  her 
experience,  which  she  was  sure  she  could  not  wish 
to  whisper  in  any  human  ear.  In  her  intercourse 
with  others,  she  often  did  herself  injustice,  by  ap- 
pearing to  be  destitute  of  emotions  which  were 
struggling  within  her,  lest  she  should  perhaps  ex- 
press more  than  she  really  felt.  It  pained  her 
that  others  should  think  of  her  more  highly  than 
she  deserved.  The  lowliness  of  her  own  opinion 
of  her  Christian  character,  could  scarcely  be  e»- 
ceeded.  "  I  have  no  reason  to  think,"  she  writes 
at  one  time,  "  that  I  ever  lived  one  day  so  as  to 
wish  to  live  that  day  over  again."  "  I  do  not  de- 
serve this,"  was  the  frequent  remark  with  which 
she  would  receive,  and  sometimes  with  tears,  even 
the  common  evidences  of  God's  kindness  to  bee. 
Her  family  she  would  often  speak  of  as  undeserv- 
ed gifts.  The  inquiry  was  many  times  on  ber 
lips,  '<  Why  have  these  been  given  to  me  ?  "  On 
one  occasion,  when  a  favorable  opinion  had  been 
expressed  of  one  of  her  little  books,  she  recorded 
the  opinion,  and  followed  it  with  an  expression  of 
the  instinctive  feeling  it  excited  in  her  own  mind, 
by  inquiring,  "  Can  anything  that  /  do,  do  any 


MEMORIAL.  83 

good  to  a  child?"  One  who  has  been  in  daily  in- 
timacy with  her,  cannot  but  remember  these  to- 
kens of  the  maturing  piety  which  shed  its  pure 
and  mellow  light  over  her  closing  years. 

There  was  also,  during  these  years,  an  obvious 
expansion  of  her  mind.  She  engaged  with  in- 
creased zeal  and  enlarged  plans,  in  writing.  Siw 
rewrote  "  The  Sunny  Side,"  which  had  lain  ne- 
glected in  her  desk  for  several  years.  This  volume 
had  been  originally  written  with  no  distinct  inten- 
tion to  publish  it,  but  simply  to  portray  for  the 
gratification  of  the  author,  the  character  of  a  de- 
ceased friend.  Several  months  elapsed  after  it 
was  completed,  before  the  thought  of  giving  it  to 
the  public  distinctly  occurred  to  her.  It  was  at 
different  times  offered  anonymously  to  five  differ- 
ent publishers,  and  with  such  modest  represen- 
tations of  its  value  tha't  it  was  as  many  times 
rejected.  An  edition  of  but  five  hundred  copies 
was  at  length  issued  by  the  author's  friends.  At 
the  present  time,  less  than  two  years  from  its  first 
publication,  the  fortieth  thousand  have  been  print- 
ed ;  and  it  is  estimated  by  those  who  are  most 
familiar  with  the  channels  in  which  it  has  been 
circulated,  that  its  readers  number  from  three  to 
five  hundred  thousand. 

It  was  in  connection  with  this  little  work,  that 
ehe  first  became  known  as  an  authoress.  Its  un- 


84  MEMORIAL. 

expected  success  increased  her  desire  to  improve 
to  the  utmost  whatever  talents  she  might  possess, 
in  the  preparation  of  books  for  the  young.  She 
wrote  in  rapid  succession  'The  Kitty  Brown  Series,' 
for  the  American  Sunday  School  Union.  Her  fu- 
gitive pieces  were  scattered  through  various  peri- 
odicals. '  The  Peep  at  No.  5,'  which  she  regard- 
ed as  her  best  production,  she  -wrote  and  published 
but  a  few  months  before  her  death.  In  less  than 
one  year  from  the  time  of  its  publication,  it  had 
reached  the  sale  of  the  twentieth  thousand.  At 
the  suggestion  of  an  unknown  correspondent  in 
Ohio,  she  gathered  and  arranged  the  materials  for 
another  narrative,  to  be  entitled  the  "  Minister's 
Widow."  It  was  designed  to  be  a  twin-volume  to 
"  The  Sunny  Side."  She  had  also  in  mind  the  mate- 
rials and  plan  of  a  work  in  similar  style,  designed 
for  young  ladies  in  the  advanced  stages  of  their 
education.  To  prepare  herself  for  this  latter  work, 
she  re-read,  critically,  the  '  Life  and  Letters  of  DC. 
Arnold,'  in  order  that  the  theory  of  education  which 
should  pervade  her  book  might  breathe  his  en- 
larged spirit.  Upon  these  last  two  works  her  mind 
was  intent  when  her  failing  health  obliged  her  to 
desist  from  the  use  of  her  pen.  It  was  one  of  the 

trials  of  her  long  confinement,  that  she  could  not 

• 

commit  to  paper  the  characters  and  scenes  which 
crowded  upon  her  imagination.  When  a  temporary 


MEMORIAL.  85 

suspension  of  disease  caused  her  strength  to  rally 
a  little,  she  for  several  days  dragged  herself  to  her 
writing-table  for  one  half-hour  each  day,  that  she 
might  finish  the  revision  of  a  collection  of  her 
miscellaneous  narratives,  which  she  had  promised 
to  the  publishers  for  republication.  Her  mind 
Teemed  to  find  no  rest  but  in  incessant  activity. 

It  had  long  been  her  practice  to  write  much, 
limply  for  her  own  gratification  or  improvement. 
During  the  years  of  her  final  residence  in  Andover, 
she  wrote  much  for  her  children,  without  any  de- 
sign of  publishing  what  she  thus  wrote.  Such 
was  her  solicitude  in  regard  to  the  earliest  impres- 
sions made  on  their  minds,  that  she  could  not  at 
all  times  find  in  the  common  collections  of  chil- 
dren's books,  just  such  reading  as  she  wished  to 
put  into  their  hands.  Some  truth  for  which  their 
minds  seemed  to  be  in  waiting,  she  could  not  find 
so  stated  or  so  illustrated  as  to  meet  her  views  of 
their  wants.  When  such  was  the  case,  she  was 
accustomed  to  write  books  for  them,  which  should 
realize  as  far  as  was  in  her  power,  her  own  idea 
of  what  they  needed.  Several  of  her  published 
volumes,  with  much  material  that  is  yet  in  man- 
uscript, were  written  with  this  design.  She  often 
wrote  in  the  morning,  the  chapter  which  was  to 
be  their  entertainment  when  they  retired  for  their 
evening  meal,  before  going  to  rest.  At  the  hour 
8 


86  MEMORIAL. 

of  twilight,  she  habitually  went  with  them,  and 
gave  them  her  personal  attendance  at  their  bed- 
side. "  She  did  but  bathe  the  weary  feet  of  her 
little  children,  but  the  Angel  over  the  right  shoul- 
der—  wrote  it  down."  "These  duties  and  cares 
acquired  a  dignity  from  the  strokes  of  that  golden 
pen.''  That  hour  was  as  dear  to  her  as  a  Sabbath 
hour.  It  was  called  in  the  family  dialect,  '  The 
children's  hour.'  Her  own  countenance  was  as 
radiant  as  theirs,  when  their  beaming  eyes  and 
forgotten  meal  testified  to  the  interest  with  which 
they  listened  to  their  mother's  stories. 

It  was  one  indication  of  the  growth  of  her  mind 
during  the  closing  years  of  her  life,  that  she  afc- 
tached  less  value  than  she  had  previously  done,  to 
jiction  as  a  medium  of  conveying  truth.  In  her 
maturest  efforts,  she  drew  but  little  upon  the  re- 
sources of  her  own  invention.  Real  life  became 
more  exclusively  her  chosen  source  of  materials. 
Upon  principle  and  by  preference,  she  made  real 
characters  the  object  of  her  study,  and  facts  the 
subject  of  her  pen.  For  this  purpose,  she  kept  a 
distinct  diary  whenever  she  went  on  a  journey ; 
and  scarcely  would  she  suffer  a  brief  excursion 
from  her  home  to  pass,  without  some  contribution 
to  her  stores.  She  made  it  a  part  of  her  plan  of 
life,  to  visit  once  in  each  year  some  large  city,  or 
some  region  of  the  country  that  was  new  to  her, 


MEMORIAL.  87 

and  to  devote  several  weeks  to  the  opportunities 
which  should  thus  be  afforded,  to  observe  varieties 
of  real  life,  and  to  gather  truthful  materials  for  her 
little  books.  A  visit  which  she  thus  made,  a  year 
before  her  death,  to  Niagara  and  the  Heights  of 
Quebec,  she  regarded  as  an  epoch  in  her  life  — 
so  suggestive  was  it  to  her  mind,  of  new  thoughts, 
new  scenes,  new  characters,  and  new  stores  of  il- 
lustration for  her  eager  pen.  With  the  same  en- 
thusiasm, she  anticipated  a  visit  to  Europe,  as  a 
means  of  furnishing  to  her  materials  for  a  life's 
work.  But  —  an  unseen  Hand  was  guiding  her  to- 
wards a  '  better  country.' 

It  must  not  be  inferred,  however,  from  her  en- 
thusiasm in  writing  and  in  her  plans  for  the  future, 
that  she  herself  entertained  any  high  opinion  of 
what  she  had  already  written.  On  the  contrary, 
her  estimate  of  her  "  foolish  little  stories,"  as  she 
was  accustomed  to  call  them,  was  not  an  exalted 
one.  Hers  was  the  modesty  of  unconscious  ex- 
cellence. She  had  written  rather  because  she 
could  not  refrain  from  doing  so,  than  because  she 
expected  to  do  any  great  good  to  others.  Unfavora- 
ble criticisms  upon  her  productions,  she  was  almost 
ahvavs  ready  to  believe  to  be  well-founded.  A 
singular  illustration  of  her  spirit  in  this  respect 
was  afforded  in  one  instance  of  her  early  experi- 
ence as  a  writer.  She  had  sent  a  manuscript  to  a 


88  MEMORIAL. 

publisher  who  courteously  returned  it  to  her,  with 
the  censures  of  a  certain  critic  upon  its  literary 
character.  She  thought  the  censures  just,  and 
wrote  a  second  time,  endeavoring  to  profit  by  the 
advice  she  had  received.  Again  the  manuscript 
was  returned,  with  further  strictures.  Her  spirit 
was  roused,  for  she  still  felt  the  justice  of  the  criti- 
cisms, and  she  resolved  that  she  would  write  and 
rewrite,  and  write  again,  until  her  manuscript 
should  be  worthy  of  publication  through  that  chan- 
nel, and  acknowledged  to  be  so  by  that  critic.  The 
third  effort  was  successful.  Her  opinion  of  "  The 
Sunny  Side,"  before  its  publication  had  tested  its 
value,  may  be  gathered  from  the  following  extract 
from  a  letter  addressed  to  one  of  the  few  friends 
who  had  seen  it  in  manuscript,  and  aided  in  giving 
it  to  the  public:  — 

"  I  have  had  some  troubled  feelings  at  my  fool- 
ishness in  permitting  my  friends  to  spend  their 
money  so,  —  but  the  more  I  think  of  it,  and  the 
more  I  sift  my  motives,  the  more  I  think  I  have 
a  sincere  desire  to  make  the  most  of  any  talents  I 
may  have,  in  service  of  the  good  cause.  I  love 
writing  ;  it  has  become  a  habit  with  me ;  and  is  it 
not  possible  that  this  taste  may  yet  be  turned  to 
some  g<x)d  account  ?  I  do  not  anticipate  much, 
however,  from  this  offering.  I  am  fully  convinced 
that  it  has  found  already,  its  most  partial  readers. 


MEMORIAL.  89 

I  do  not  mean  to  be  disturbed  by  any  fate  that 
may  await  it.  My  chief  desire  is,  that  I  may  my- 
self derive  some  good  from  the  writing  of  it.  But 
my  heart  did  misgive  me  last  Friday,  when  1  saw 
a  boy  crossing  over  to  the  bindery  with  a  larger 
budget  of  copies  than  he  could  well  lift.  I  felt 
like  hiding  my  head,  or  putting  my  veil  down." 

Even  after  the  very  favorable  reception  of  her 
little  book,  she  could  not  persuade  herself  that  this 
argued  any  considerable  merit  in  the  author.  She 
attributed  its  success  to  the  rare  worth  of  the  lead- 
ing character  it  portrayed,  and  that  being  taken 
from  real  life,  she  did  not  seem  to  herself  to  de- 
serve much  credit  for  her  skill  in  the  painting. 
The  large  and  rapid  circulation  of  this  volume  and 
others  that  followed  it,  bewildered  her.  Yet,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  that  she  enjoyed  her  success  —  she 
did  so  with  the  same  enthusiasm  that  she  felt  in 
everything  that  fairly  enlisted  her  interest.  More 
than  this,  —  she  felt  grateful  for  the  opening  pros- 
pect of  usefulness  in  a  way  which  was  so  congenial 
with  her  tastes.  "When  reports  came  back  to  her 
of  the  favor  with  which  one  after  another  of  her  lit- 
tle '  offerings'  were  received,  she  would  sometimes 
burst  into  tears  of  grateful  surprise.  She  could 
never  be  persuaded,  however,  to  append  her  name 
to  any  of  her  publications.  It  was  painful  to  her, 
to  learn  that  her  name  had  become  known  as  that 
8* 


90  MEMORIAL. 

of  the  authoress  of  "  The  Sunny  Side."  That 
book  would  never  have  been  published,  if  she  had 
anticipated  such  a  result. 

A  brief  extract  from  her  '  Family  Journal,'  writ- 
ten after  her  books  had  begun  to  attract  attention 
to  herself,  will  illustrate  the  modesty  of  her 
thoughts  respecting  them.  The  extract  is  inter- 
esting also,  for  the  shadows  which  it  discloses  as 
appearing  to  cloud  over  her  vision  of  the  future. 

"  It  has  succeeded,"  she  writes,  alluding  to  one 
of  her  recent  publications,  "  beyond  my  most  san- 
guine dreams.  It  appears  to  me  that  the  way  is 
now  opening  for  me  to  write,  —  a  way  which  I 
have  sighed  for,  long.  I  do  pray  that  my  fondness 
for  it  may  not  lead  me  to  overrate  my  ability  for 
it,  or  its  comparative  importance.  At  present,  I 
do  riot  understand  either  what  I  can,  or  precisely 
•what  I  wish  to  do  in  this  way.  I  work  in  the 
dark.  Everything  lies  in  chaos  before  me.  My 
life  is  a  riddle  to  me ;  the  past  is  all  I  can  read. 
1  cannot  tell  a  letter  of  the  future" 

One  year  from  the  time  when  this  was  written, 
she  was  sinking  rapidly  to  her  rest.  Did  the  "  An- 
gel with  mild  and  loving  eyes  "  hold  before  her  the 
"  Book  "  whose  "  golden  clasps  "  were  so  soon  to 
be  closed  upon  her  life's  work,  that  lie  might  kind- 
ly hide  the  future  from  her  hopes  ? 


MEMORIAL.  91 

DEATH  had,  from  her  very  childhood,  been  too 
familiar  to  her  thoughts,  to  take  her  now  entirely 
by  surprise.  No  other  single  object  had  gathered 
around  itself  so  many  of  her  thoughts,  fears,  strug- 
gles, hopes.  She  had  accustomed  her  imagination 
to  face  it  in  a  thousand  forms.  She  had  often 
summoned  it  from  the  distance,  and  looked  upon  it 
steadily,  till,  in  magnified  stature,  and  swift-footed, 
it  seemed  to  stand  just  before  her.  She  had  thus 
endeavored  to  try  her  strength  with  the  great  ene- 
my. Among  the  varieties  of  the  modes  of  meet- 
ing death,  of  which  she  had  often  thought,  she  had 
anticipated,  years  before  they  came  upon  her,  very 
nearly  the  precise  circumstances  in  which  she  was 
at  last  called  to  die.  They  impressed  her  mind  so 
powerfully,  that  she  recorded  her  feelings  under 
the  fiction  of  a  dream.  To  read  it  now,  it  seems 
to  have  been  almost  prophetic.  It  is  as  follows, 
viz.: — 

"  I  have  had  a  dream.  I  was  in  a  darkened 
chamber,  and  there  lay  before  me  a  pale  sufferer. 
I  could  see  her  face  distinctly,  for  above  her  hov- 
ered an  angel  from  whose  form  light  radiated. 
This,  I  saw,  was  the  Angel  of  Death ;  and  yet  he 
•was  not  terrible.  He  looked  earnestly  with  mourn- 
ful and  yet  loving  eyes,  on  her  pallid  countenance, 
and  words  seemed  to  come  from  him  without 
breath.  'Then,  choose,  my  child;  I  have  here 


92  MEMORIAL. 

for  you  a  crown.  Come  with  me,  and  it  is  surely 
yours.  Your  sins  are  blotted  out  forever.'  One 
stepped  up,  and  reached  to  her  her  first-born. 
She  gazed  at  it  long  —  she  touched  its  innocent 
forehead  —  she  looked  at  the  angel  —  her  lips 
moved,  as  if  she  would  say,  '  What,  alone  in  the 
world  ? '  '  And  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb,'  was  the  reply.  Then  her  dark  blue 
eye  turned  on  one  who  stood  weeping  by  her  side. 
Her  lip  quivered ;  a  stern  struggle  was  in  her 
heart.  That  breathless  voice  spoke  again,  '  Life 
has  rich  gifts  of  love  for  you ;  but  sin  is  here. 
Will  you  leave  with  me  for  Heaven  ?  Choose, 
my  child.'  And  the  struggle  convulsed  her  frame 
•with  mortal  agony  ;  then  it  ceased,  and  all  was 
calm.  Without  a  tear,  her  eye  turned  on  death. 
She  placed  her  hand  in  his.  Music  and  light, 
such  as  angels  love,  filled  the  air ;  and  death  took 
his  gift.  Yet,  I  saw  that  he  left  a  form,  cold  though 
it  was,  whose  expression  was  still  so  radiant  with 
rapture,  that  as  we  looked,  our  hearts  were  com- 
forted. I  awoke  in  tears,  but  they  were  not  for 
the  departed ;  they  were  for  the  solitary  mourner 
•who  was  bending  over  her." 

More  than  fifteen  months  before  her  decease, 
she  expressed  the  conviction  that  her  constitution 
was  failing.  The  severe  illness  of  one  of  her 
children  at  that  time,  had  greatly  exhausted  her 


MEMORIAL.  93 

strength.  This  was  soon  followed  by  the  sudden 
death  of  her  father  —  an  event  which  shocked  her 
whole  system.  The  foreboding  with  which  for 
many  years  <he  had  looked  forward  to  the  'break- 
ing up  of  her  father's  family,'  seemed  about  to  be 
fully  realised.  The.  affliction  sunk  deep  into  her 
soul.  Her  father  often  seemed  present  with  her 
in  physical  form.  He  sat  and  talked  with  her  in 
her  dreams.  Her  spirit  seemed  unwilling  to  let 
him  depart  from  her.  The  cord  that  had  so  long 
bound  her  life  to  his,  would  not  break.  She  suf- 
fered too  great  intensity  of  ft-eling  for  her  ex- 
hausted body.  At  her  father's  funeral  she  expres- 
sed the  belief  that  she  should  be  the  first  of  his 
family  to  follow  him  into  eternity.  She  sought 
relief  in  redoubled  exertions  at  her  writing  table. 
WithiiK  the  space  of  a  short  time,  she  wrote  and 
rewrote  the  "  Peep  at  No.  5."  It  was  an  untime- 
ly, and  —  in  connection  with  the  events  that  pre- 
ceded and  followed  it  —  a  fatal  effort.  She  passed 
the  ensuing  summer  in  a  state  of  great  prostration. 
The  apprehension  that  she  should  not  recover,  of- 
ten suggested  itself  to  her  mind,  and  she  put  hex 
house  in  order,  in  anticipation  of  the  possible,  per- 
haps probable,  event  of  her  speedy  departure. 

A  short  time  spent  at  the  seaside  in  July,  caus- 
ed her  strength  to  rally  a  little.  There  she  en- 
joyed much  in  riding  several  hours  daily  on  the 


94  MEM  OEIAL  . 

beach,  now  listening  to  the  reading  of  some  of  her 
favorite  authors,  and  then  communing  in  silence 
with  the  sea.  She  conversed  freely  respecting 
herself,  recalled  many  of  the  most  interesting  pas- 
sages in  her  life,  spoke  gratefully  of  those  to  whom 
she  was  indebted  for  valuable  influences  upon  her 
character,  and  expressed  many  wishes  with  regard 
to  the  training  of  her  children,  if  she  should  soon 
be  called  to  leave  them.  With  the  most  melting 
tones  of  self-humiliation,  she  expressed  her  sorrow 
for  the  '  waste  of  years '  which,  to  her  severe 
judgment,  seemed  to  constitute  her  past  life,  and 
for  her  great  unworthiness  of  the  blessings  with 
which  God  had  filled  her  life  up.  "And  yet," 
said  she,  "  I  have  struggled  hard  to  know  my  duty 
in  life,  and  to  do  it.  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  had  suc- 
ceeded, but  nobody  knows  how  I  have  struggled 
to  do  right.  And  now,  if  it  is  God's  will  that  I 
ehould  die,  I  think  I  can  say  that  my  mind  is  at 
rest  in  whatever  He  wills.  For  myself,  I  think  I 
need  not  fear,  but  I  do  not  see  how  my  family  can 
spare  me  yet,  nor  do  I  know  that  I  feel  ready  to 
leave  them.  If  it  comes  to  that,  I  think  God  will 
prepare  me  for  it." 

To  one  of  her  old  school-companions,  whose 
Christian  counsel  had  for  man)-  years  been  'a  so- 
lace to  her,  she  wrote  at  this  time  as  follows:  — 
"  After  all,  I  have  more  hope  than  fear  for  the  re- 


MEMORIAL.  95 

suit  of  this  sickness,  though  sometimes  I  see  it  just 

as  it  is,  doubtful.     Dear  A ,  if  it  comes  to  the 

worst,  I  want  to  say  to  you,  that  from  first  to  last, 
you  have  been  invaluable  to  me.  If  I  could  ever 
do  for  any  human  being  what  you  have  clone  for 
me,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  not  lived  in  vain. 
This  is*  all  true ;  and  if  the  great  gulf  separates 
us  soon,  my  best  love  stays  with  you  ;  and  if  Jam 
fit,  I  know  we  shall  meet  in  Heaven.  I  cannot 
write  much  more.  You  must  not  infer  that  I  am 
gloomy  —  I  am  not.  I  dare  not  say  how  I  should 
feel  with  the  certainty  of  death  before  me ;  but 
now,  in  thinking  of  it,  my  mind  is  at  rest.  I  am 
willing  to  leave  myself  in  God's  hands.  I  do 
think  that  the  question  of  my  life  or  death,  and 
what  is  more,  the  salvation  of  my  soul,  I  am  wil- 
ling to  leave  there.  I  have  no  hope  but  in  my 
Saviour ;  and  if  He  has  not  saved  me,  then  this 
too  I  know  is  just,  and  God's  Decree  I  would  not 
change." 

Thus  cautiously,  and  with  severe  self-distrust, 
did  she  express  her  Christian  hope,  though  on  the 
verge  of  Heaven.  It  was  with  the  same  lowly 
spirit  that,  eighteen  years  before,  she  had  "  begun 
to  dare  to  hope  that  she  had  become  a  child  of 
God."  To  one  who  knows  her  habit  of  using  few 
and  measured  words  in  speaking  of  her  own  Chris- 
tian experience,  this  brief  extract  speaks  volumes* 


96  MEMORIAL. 

Especially  does  its  closing  declaration  reveal  one 
of  the  deep  places  in  her  heart.  Her  now  long- 
rooted  habits  of  rest  in  God's  Decrees,  led  her  to 
utter  the  most  solemn  words  that  can  fall  from 
human  lips, — "  If  He  has  not  saved  me,  then  this  too 
I  know  is  just,  and  God's  Decree  1  would  not 
change"  This  was,  to  her  mind,  no  idle*  profes- 
sion, nor  had  it  any  vague  significance.  She  knew 
•what  she  meant  by  it,  and  she  meant  what  she 
said.  One  who  has  been  familiar  with  her  ways 
of  thinking,  and  her  use  of  language,  can  almost 
imagine  her  as  uttering  the  same  words  beyond 
the  confines  of  this  world. 

In  the  month  of  August,  1852,  she  gave  birth 
to  her  third  child.  For  several  weeks  after  this 
event,  her  health  improved,  and  her  friends  began 
to  lose  their  fears  of  a  fatal  termination  of  her 
disease.  She  herself  engaged  in  new  plans  for 
the  employment  of  her  pen  for  years  to  come. 
Her  love  of  life  strengthened  as  her  hope  of  life 
brightened.  Life  never  before  seemed  so  desirable 
to  her  as  now.  New  ties  bound  her  to  this  world. 
During  her  long  illness,  two  objects  seemed  to  flit 
before  her  as  emblems  of  her  chief  desires  for  the 
recovery  of  her  health  ;  one  was,  her  writing-table 
— and  the  other,  her  seat  in  the  little  group  that 
had  been  accustomed  to  gather  around  her,  at 
"  the  children's  hour." 


MEMORIAL.  97 

In  the  early  part  of  October,  the  improvement 
that  had  taken  place  in  her  condition,  seemed  to 
be  secretly  arrested.  The  disease  of  the  brain, 
which  had  for  many  years  afflicted  her  at  inter- 
vals, began  to  develop  itself  with  increased  sever- 
ity ;  and  it  soon  became  manifest  that  her  whol« 
system  was  slowly  giving  way.  About  the  first  of 
November,  she  was  removed  to  Boston,  in  the 
hope  that  change  of  scene,  and  proximity  to  the 
sea-coast,  and  additional  medical  advice,  might  be 
the  means  of  her  restoration.  It  was  all  in  vain ; 
her  physicians  soon  pronounced  her  case  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  hopeless. 

And  now  commenced  one  of  the  most  striking 
exhibitions  of  her  character  that  her  life  witness- 
ed. It  was,  her  calm,  deliberate,  conscientious, 
determined  strugqle  for  life.  She  had  scarcely 
reached  life's  meridian.  Her  powers  as  a  writer, 
after  twenty  years  of  faithful  discipline,  had  but 
just  come  to  their  maturity.  The  judgment  of 
severe  critics  had  assured  her,  that  a  sphere  of 
public  usefulness  was  opening  before  her.  She 
felt  eager  to  enter  it,  and  grateful  for  the  privi- 
lege. Her  home,  too,  called  loudly  for  her.  She 
•was  a  wife,  and  a  mother.  An  infant  family  seem- 
ed to  say  to  her  that  she  must  not  die.  She  felt 
—  and  who  of  hf *  friends  did  not  ?  —  that  she  had 
everything  to  liv*  for.  Yes, '  Life  had  rich  gifts 
9 


90  MEMORIAL. 

of  love  for  her.'  She  could  not  see  —  and  who  of 
her  friends  was  more  discerning  ?  —  the  reason  for 
this  rupture  of  ties  which  no  human  hand  had 
woven.  God,  in  this  emergency,  seemed  to  make 
'  darkness  His  secret  place.'  She  had  no  wisdom 
to  interpret  His  doings ;  she  could  hear  only  the 
summons  of  the  'Angel'  with 'breathless  voice.' 
She  had  long  known  the  power  of  the  mind 
over  the  health  of  the  body.  The  resistance  of 
disease  by  force  of  will,  had  been  a  habit  with  her 
for  years.  Her  resolute  purpose  and  fidelity  in 
self-discipline,  had  often  kept  in  check  the  malady 
which  now  threatened  to  lay  her  in  the  grave. 
After  meditating  long  in  silence  upon  the  extrem- 
ity to  which  she  seemed  now  to  be  brought,  she 
called  her  husband  to  her  side  —  her  voice  was 
calm — her  whole  manner  self-possessed  —  every- 
thing betokened  the  collected  purpose  of  her  souL 
As  nearly  as  her  language  can  be  now  recalled, 
she  said,  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to  speak  to  me  of 
death,  nor  tell  me  of  any  discouraging  changes  in 
my  state.  Talk  to  me  of  God,  and  give  me  pleas- 
ant thoughts  of  Heaven,  but  not  as  if  you  expected 
me  to  die.  Be  as  hopeful  as  you  can  be,  and  help 
me  to  hope.  You  need  not  feel  anxious  about  my 
religious  state,  nor  ask  me  about  it.  That  is  not 
necessary.  I  am  at  rest. 
When  the  time  comes  for  me  to  go,  you  shal- 


MEMORIAL.  99 

know  it.  I  shall  not  die  without  being  able  to  say 
to  you  all  that  you  will  wish  to  hear.  God  will 
take  care  of  that,  and  He  will  take  care  of  me. 
If  death  is  before  me,  I  shall  be  ready  to  meet  it. 
Now,  my  duty  is,  to  live ;  and  you  must  help  me." 
This  calm  conviction  of  duty  to  live,  from  that 
moment  appeared  almost  incessantly  to  be  active 
in  her  mind.  She  concentrated  the  whole  strength 
of  her  being  upon  the  last  struggle  for  life.  Never 
before  had  she  exhibited  so  noble  an  effort  of 
Christian  principle  as  now, — through  that  memor- 
able month  of  November.  She  watched  in  silence 
the  signs  of  her  failing  strength,  but  expressed  con- 
tinually her  strong  hope  that  she  should  yet  re- 
cover. When  temporary  improvements  took  place 
in  her  condition,  she  rallied  her  spirits,  and  threw 
herself  back  into  life,  and  formed  plans,  and  con- 
versed blithely,  and  even  amused  her  friends  with 
her  wonted  pleasantries.  "When  she  was  wearied 
with  the  effort,  she  would  request  that  a  boquet  of 
flowers  or  a  favorite  picture  should  be  placed  be- 
fore her,  that  she  might  rest  in  the  enjoyment  it 
afforded  her.  If  a  friend  were  overcome  at  the 
sight  of  her  wasting  frame,  she  would  request  him 
to  leave  her ;  and  when  it  was  suggested  that  her 
elder  children  should  once  more  visit  her,  she  de- 
clined the  proposal,  for  "  she  had  no  strength  to 
waste"  OD  scenes  of  pain  and  parting,  and  "  it  was 


100  MEMORIAL. 

her  duty  to  live."  Sometimes,  for  days  together, 
so  stern  was  the  conflict,  that  those  she  loved  best 
could  scarcely  catch  from  her  a  word,  a  smile,  a 
look,  that  betokened  her  interest  in  them.  They 
feared  that  she  might  pass  away  in  the  silence  of 
'those  dreadful  hours,  unable  to  speak  her  last  mes- 
sage. Yet,  she  seemed  constantly  more  thought- 
ful of  others  than  of  herself.  The  kindness  of 
friends  around  her,  was  often  the  only  thing  that 
could  recall  a  degree  of  her  wonted  vivacity.  She 
seemed  unable  to  express  adequately  her  gratitude 
to  her  faithful  nurse ;  and  to  other  friends  whom 
she  thought  God  had  directly  sent  to  her  in  her 
hour  of  trial,  she  would  indicate  in  many  nameless 
ways  how  deeply  she  felt  their  unsought  benefi- 
cence. Her  mind  associated  them  with  Him  who 
'  went  about  doing  good.'  She  told  them  that  she 
understood  as  she  had  never  done  before,  why 
Christ  spent  so  much  of  his  life  with  the  sick  and 
the  suffering ;  that  nobody  could  know  the  good 
which  was  thus  achieved,  except  those  who  them- 
selves lay  on  a  sick  bed.  Her  silent  thoughts  of 
her  own  family,  too,  would  sometimes  break  from 
the  restraint  she  imposed  on  them.  In  one  h> 
stance,  when  her  infant  child  was  taken  into  her 
room,  it  seemed  to  unloose  her  imprisoned  affec- 
tions,—  her  face  lighted  up  with  tenderness,  her 
eye  assumed  that  depth  of  meaning  which  none 


MEMORIAL.  101 

but  a  mother's  eye  ever  has,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments she  poured  forth  her  love  in  the  dialect 
which  only  mothers  know  how  to  use  —  then  fell 
back,  as  if  to  renew  more  resolutely  the  struggle 
against  the  disease  that  consumed  her.  There 
were  occasions  of  extreme  and  immediate  peril, 
when  she  would  herself  give  directions  as  to  the 
various  remedies  she  needed,  and  would  mark  the 
time,  minute  by  minute,  at  which  the  remedy 
should  be  repeated.  On  such  occasions  there  were 
moments  when,  as  if  to  proclaim  its  own  immor- 
tality, the  soul  seemed  to  come  forth  from  that 
dimmed  eye,  and  in  almost  visible  presence,  to 
st.rike  at  the  unseen  foe.  Meanwhile,  all  that  poor 
human  affection  could  do,  was  to  stand  near  and 
give  in  quick  succession  the  weapons  of  assault. 

For  more  than  thirty  days  she  thus  maintained 
the  unequal  conflict.  At  length,  her  hope  began  to 
waver.  "  If  it  were  not  for  my  children,"  said  she, 
"  I  would  not  struggle  any  longer."  It  was  not 
till  the  evening  of  the  twenty-ninth  of  November, 
that  she  became  convinced  that  the  struggle  was  a 
hopeless  one,  and  that  God  was  calling  her  to  Him- 
self. She  then  gave  up  all,  with  scarcely  a  mo- 
ment's agitation.  "  Without  a  tear  her  eye  turned 
on  Death.  She  placed  her  hand  in  his." 

The  closing  scene  was  just  like  her.  Her  whole 
was  «o  self-possessed  —  her  words  were 
9* 


102  MEMORIAL. 

so  truthful  —  her  spirit  so  self-distrustful,  so  severe 
in  judgment  upon  her  own  infirmities,  so  peni- 
tent, so  hopeful,  so  thoughtful  of  those  whom  she 
was  leaving,  so  full  of  love  to  that  Saviour  who 
was  waiting  for  her  coming —  that  it  did  not  seem 
like  dying.  It  was  rather,  life  drawing  to  its  close 
with  a  beautiful  naturalness.  She  took  her  hus- 
band by  the  hand,  and  after  speaking  of  the  path 
they  had  trod  together,  as  none  but  she  could  have 
spoken,  she  said,  "  You  must  not  think  I  have 
been  unhappy  during  this  sickness  —  I  have  not. 
I  have  done  the  best  I  could  do  to  live,  but  I  have 
not  been  unhappy.  The  Saviour  has  been  around 
my  bed.  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  be  saved,  but 
now  I  can  only  trust.  He  gave  Himself  to  die 
for  sinners,  and  why  should  I  not  trust  Him  ?  " 
After  a  brief  season  of  exhaustion,  her  mind 
seemed  to  be  full  of  anticipations  of  Heaven,  and 
it  presented  itself  to  her  view  in  the  forms  of  ma- 
terial beauty,  which  she  had  always  loved.  She 
repeated  a  line  of  one  of  her  favorite  hymns  — 

'  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  floods,' — 

then,  after  a  little  interval,  added,  "  It  is  delightful 
to  stand  on  the  banks." 

After  another  interval  of  silence,  in  which  she 
appeared  to  be  looking  over  the  cold  river  to  the 


MEMORIAL.  103 

« fields  beyond,'  she  collected  her  strength  to  ex- 
press her  wishes  respecting  her  family  and  other 
friends.  Her  intellect  was  clear  and  definite  in  its 
perceptions,  her  opinions  prompt  and  positive,  just 
as  they  had  always  been.  She  spoke  of  many 
minute  particulars  relating  to  the  education  of  her 
children,  descending  even  to  an  expression  of  her 
judgment  as  to  their  physical  training.  She  re- 
called, distinctly,  one  after  another  of  her  friends, 
and  designated  the  little  mementos  of  her  affec- 
tion which  she  wished  to  present  to  them.  Hav- 
ing recounted  these,  it  was  just  like  her,  that  she 
could  not  resist  the  kindly  impulse  that  prompted 
her  for  the  moment,  to  bespeak  a  gentle  treatment 
for  a  favorite  horse,  which  had  been  one  of  God's 
gifts  to  her.  She  repeatedly  cautioned  her  at- 
tendants to  preserve  a  composed  spirit  around  her, 
and  seemed  to  strive  to  aid  them  by  speaking 
pleasantly  of  her  emaciated  frame,  and  calmly  ex- 
pressing her  wishes  as  to  the  place  of  her  burial. 
Her  interest  in  her  writings  seemed  to  be  as  fresh 
as  ever.  She  desired  that  the  publication  of  a  little 
volume  which  was  then  in  press,  should  not  be  de- 
layed on  account  of  her  departure ;  and  it  pleased 
her  to  listen  to  the  request  of  a  distant  publisher, 
which  was  received  that  very  evening,  for  another 
edition  of  "  The  Angel  over  the  Right  Shoulder." 
"  Let  it  go,"  said  she,  "  it  will  do  good."  She  in- 


104  MEMORIAL 

quired,  also,  for  the  day  of  the  month,  and  wished 
to  know  the  precise  age  of  her  infant  child,  and  re- 
quested that  he  might  be  baptized  at  her  funeral. 
And  remembering,  doubtless,  her  own  childhood, 
she  said,  "  Do  not  let  my  death  throw  a  gloom  over 
the  lives  of  my  children."  She  gave  a  pleasing  in- 
dication of  the  intimacy  with  which  her  refined 
tastes  had  become  associated  in  her  thoughts  with 
the  more  common  modes  of  Christian  usefulness, 
by  the  fact  that  in  the  same  breath  in  which  she 
requested  that  her  daughter  might  be  carefully  in- 
structed in  the  fine  arts,  she  requested,  also,  that 
her  two  little  boys  might  be  trained  for  the  work 
of  foreign  missionaries. 

These  thoughts  of  earth  appeared  to  give  rest 
to  her  weary  mind,  and  enable  her  again  to  revert 
to  the  eternal  prospect  before  her.  She  spoke  of 
the  friends  whom  she  should  soon  meet.  "  There 
are  a  great  many  there,"  said  she,  "  and  you  will 
all  come  soon,  it  will  be  but  a  little  while  —  Mother 
will  come  very  soon."  This  thought  of  meeting 
friends  in  Heaven,  however,  seemed  to  be  unsatis- 
factory to  her.  It  instantly  suggested  her  meeting 
with  Christ,  and  the  infinite  holiness  of  His  pres- 
ence appeared  to  overawe  her  soul.  "  I  do  not 
feel  as  if  I  were  fit  to  go  to  Heaven,"  said  she ; 
"  are  you  sure  that  He  will  save  me  ?  "  Her  se- 
vere fidelity  to  herself  found  expression  in  even 


MEMORIAL.  105 

stronger  language,  when  she  added,  "  I  do  not  feel 
as  if  I  were  a  Christian  — but  I  cannot  make  my- 
self such.  What  shall  I  do  if  I  .am  selfish  in  it 
all  ?  My  mind  is  a  little  clouded  —  I  am  afraid  I 
am  selfish."  Some  passages  from  the  Scriptures 
were  repeated  to  her,  which  appeared  to  give 
her  comfort.  Among  others,  the  following,  viz  : 
'  This  is  a  faithful  saying  and  worthy  of  all  accepta- 
tion, that  Jesus  Christ  came  into  the  world  to  save 
sinners.'  The  speaker  paused  here,  and  she  in- 
stantly took  up  the  passage,  and  added  in  tones  of 
most  touching  emphasis,  "  of  whom  I  am  chief" 
And  after  a  few  moments'  silence,  she  continued 
in  the  same  earnest  tones,  "  I  do  believe ; "  and 
again,  in  answer  to  the  inquiry,  "  You  know  that 
you  love  the  Saviour,  do  you  not  ?  "  she  replied, 
u  I  do  love  Him.  I  do  trust  in  his  atoning  blood, 
and  in  nothing  else.  I  give  myself  to  Him."  As 
one  after  another  of  the  Scriptural  assurances  of 
God's  faithfulness  to  His  children  were  repeated 
to  her,  a  tremulous  pressure  of  the  hand  that  held 
hers  told  how  precious  they  were  to  her.  After 
some  hours  had  passed,  her  physical  distress  led 
her  to  ask  for  some  anodyne  that  should  give  her 
relief;  but  when  it  was  prepared,  she  refused  to 
take  it  until  she  was  assured  that  it  could  not  ob- 
scure the  clearness  of  her  mind.  As  life  ebbed 
fast  away,  the  thought  of  the  holiness  of  Heaven 


106  MEMORIAL. 

again  oppressed  her.  and  doubts  clouded  the  pros- 
pect. "  Are  you  sure  lie  will  fit  me  for  heaven?" 
she  asked ;  and  nothing  seemed  to  satisfy  her 
longing  for  a  full  assurance,  but  the  very  words  of 
God,  '  He  is  able  to  save  unto  the  uttermost,  seeing 
that  He  ever  liveth  to  intercede.'  *  He  that  cometh 
unto  me,  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out.'  '  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid.' 
*  I  go  to  prepare  mansions  for  you.'  '  I  will  not 
leave  you  comfortless.'  '  I  will  come  again  and 
receive  you  unto  myself.'  '  This  day  shall  thou 
be  with  me  in  Paradise.'  These,  and  many  other* 
of  like  character,  buoyed  up  her  fainting  spirit 
For  several  hours  before  she  vanished  out  of  our 
sight,  not  a  cloud  rested  upon  her  vision.  She  de- 
sired to  depart.  Her  last  intelligible  words  were, 
H  How  long  ?  —  how  long  ?  " 

IT  was  on  the  morning  of  the  last  day  of  Au- 
tumn, after  a  still  and  cloudless  night,  that  she  '  fell 
asleep.'  "  Music  and  light,  such  as  angels  love, 
filled  the  air,  and  death  took  his  gift.  Yet  I  saw 
that  he  left  a  form,  cold  though  it  was,  whose  ex- 
pression was  so"  peaceful,  "  that  as  we  looked, 
our  hearts  were  comforted." 

Her  funeral  was  solemnized  at  her  late  resi- 
dence in  Andover,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third 
day  of  December,  1852.  \Ve  sung  her  favorite 


MEMORIAL.  107 

hymns* — one  of  which  had  been  in  her  dying 
thoughts,  and  the  other  she  had,  in  her  last  sick- 
ness, pronounced  the  "most  beautiful  in  the  lan- 
guage." In  accordance  with  her  request,  the  rite 
of  Baptism  was  administered  to  her  infant  child. 
We  could  not  but  be  grateful  for  such  a  privilege, 
at  such  an  hour ;  and  when  we  learned  that  at  that 
hour  the  western  sun  had  stolen  into  that  dark- 
ened room,  and  sought  out  no  object  there  but  her 
portrait  which  was  looking  down  upon  us,  we  could 
not  but  be  reminded  that  she  had  indeed  smiled 
upon  the  scene.  She  had  always  been  grateful  if 
the  winds  were  hushed,  and  the  skies  radiant,  and 
the  atmosphere  bland,  when  she  followed  a  friend 
to  the  burial,  —  and  such  was  the  hour  in  which 
we  followed  her.  Autumn,  with  thoughtful  kind- 
ness,  had  lingered  for  us;  loving  spirits  seemed  to 
move  around  us  in  the  serene  air;  the  'speaking 
elms,'  now  shorn  of  their  verdure,  sighed  in  gen- 
tle sympathy  with  our  woe  ;  and  as  we  bore  her 
along  the  path  which  she  had  so  often  trodden 
with  us  to  the  house  of  God,  the  setting  sun  — 
her  own  chosen  emblem  of  immortality  —  paused 
on  the  horizon,  to  proclaim  once  more  the  assu- 

*  The  first  was  the  five  hundred  and  tenth,  and  the 
second  was  the  three  hundred  and  eighty-fourth  Hymn  of 
the  collection  of  "  Psalms  and  Hymns  "  prepared  under 
the  direction  of  the  General  .A  •=«"'-;  nion  of  Connection*. 


108  MEMORIAL. 

ranee  to  our  souls.  The  tolling  bell  seemed  friend- 
ly to  us,  now  that  it  no  more  struck  terror  to  her 
heart ;  we  were  glad  when  we  thought  that  il  wa^ 
not  'beyond  the  stars  heard.'  It  was  a  comfort  to 
us,  that  her  little  ones  mourned  not,  but  followed 
her  trustfully.  It  helped  to  soothe  us  as  we  drew 
near  to  the  narrow  house,  that  we  could  lay  her 
down  to  rest  in  that  consecrated  spot,  where  are 
few,  if  any,  for  whom  men  have  mourned  as  those 
that  had  no  hope  ;  and  where  so  many  repose  who 
were  '  chosen  vessels '  unto  God.  We  felt  that 
we  brought  her  to  join  an  illustrious  company. 
We  thought,  how  peacefully  she  would  rest  by  the 
side  of  her  father  whom  her  soul  loved.  '  With 
kings  and  counsellors  of  the  earth,' — and  more,  with 
'  kings  and  priests  unto  God,' — we  left  her.  And 
there,  she  sleeps  to-day.  Yet,  not  there.  We 
have  sought  her  diligently,  and  we  could  not  find 
her  there.  We  have  called  to  her ;  and  she  would 
have  wakened  at  our  voice,  if  she  hud  slumbered 
there ;  but  the  winds  answered  us  hoarsely.  We 
have  lifted  the  cold  mantle  which  we  tried  to  think 
winter  had  thrown  kindly  over  her ;  and  she 
would  have  reached  forth  her  hand  to  greet  us,  if 
she  had  been  hidden  there ;  but  we  grasped  only  the 
dull,  frozen  earth.  Then  suddenly  the  grave  grew 
deeper,  and  the  darkness  thickened  over  it  when- 
ever we  sought  her  there ;  and  the  stars  seemed 


MEMORIAL.  109 

to  draw  lovingly  towards  us,  and  we  heard  a  voice 
from  Heaven  saying,  "  What  do  ye  here  ?  Why 
seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  ? "  And  so 
we  turned  away.  We  sought  her  among  the  "  liv- 
ing," and  our  eyes  were  opened  to  behold  her.  In 
visions  of  the  night,  she  sought  out  us,  and  we 
took  sweet  counsel  with  her.  She  told  us  that  she 
had  been  changed,  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  She  had  been  carried  away  to  a  holy 
city  that  came  down  from  God.  It  had  no  need 
of  the  sun,  neither  of  the  moon,  to  shine  in  it,  yet 
there  was  no  night  there.  She  had  seen  a  pure 
river  of  water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal;  and  the 
street  of  the  city  was  pure  gold.  There,  was  no 
more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor  crying,  nor  any 
more  pain,  and  we  saw  that  all  tears  had  been 
wiped  away  from  her  eyes.  She  told  us,  that 
through  the  infinite  riches  of  grace  which  are  in 
Christ  Jesus,  she  had  been  welcomed  there  to  a 
mansion,  of  which  she  could  only  say,  that  He  had 
prepared  it  for  her.  Her  tongue  had  been  unloosed 
to  speak  His  praise.  A  harp  had  been  given  to 
her,  and  her  fingers  had  become  skilful  on  its  gol- 
den chords.  She  had  been  admitted  to  a  choice 
companionship.  She  was  one  of  the  swift  mes- 
sengers. She  was  of  those  who  mount  up  on 
wings  as  eagles,  —  and  many  things  had  she  seen 
in  her  flight  which  it  was  not  lawful  for  her  to 
10 


110  MEMORIAL. 

utter.  But,  more  than  all,  she  had  been  \viih 
Christ  He  who  had  so  gently  walked  'around  her 
bed '  when  she  had  fallen  asleep,  had  been  the 
first  to  greet  her  when  she  woke.  That  counte- 
nance which  she  had  believed  no  earthly  art  could 
picture,  had,  with  more  than  its  earthly  radiance, 
smiled  on  her ;  and  she  was  satisfied  now,  for  she 
had  awaked  in  His  likeness.  Then  we  looked  and 
saw,  that  His  name  was  written  in  her  foreheao. 
Yes,  she  had  been  with  Christ.  She  had  seer* 
—  GOD. 

We  comforted  one  another  with  these  word? 
Then  we  remembered  the  words  which  she  had 
spoken  while  she  was  yet  with  us,  many  yeard 
before,  and  which  she  had  recorded,  as  if  to  pit* 
us  in  remembrance  of  her,  when  they  should  hj.v» 
come  to  pass. 

"  Once,  at  the  hour  of  twilight,"  she  had  wrll 
ten,  "  I  sat  at  my  western  window,  and  watched 
the  dying  out  of  day.  To  me,  the  scene  is  always 
suggestive  of  the  fading  away  of  this  life.  1 
strained  my  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  beyond  thb 
dark  horizon.  But  the  distant  mountain  and 
nearer  hill  and  valley  faded  into  the  grey  twi- 
light, and  my  thoughts  turned  from  the  world 
without  to  the  world  within.  All  at  once,  from 
that  spot  where  the  red  sun  went  down,  arose  a 
bright  cloud  like  a  new  sun.  Soon  I  seemed  t<- 


MEMORIAL.  Ill 

be  bathed  in  its  light.  The  ebbing  and  flowing 
waves  bore  up  before  me  a  shining  mirror.  I 
looked  upon  this  mirror,  and  saw  reflected  in  it 
my  own  image.  It  was  a  truthful  mirror.  What 
a  heart  it  revealed  to  me  !  How  divided  between 
earth  and  heaven,  between  self  and  God  !  How 
feeble  its  best  resolutions  !  How  faint  its  noblest 
aspirations !  How  corrupt  a  heart  it  was !  I 
wept,  and  through  my  tears  I  saw  that  the  intel- 
lect, too,  was  fettered  by  prejudice,  enslaved  by 
indolence,  diseased  by  sin.  Its  enfeebled  powers 
returned  no  '  usury'  to  the  Giver.  I  wept  more 
and  more  at  this  sight.  I  bent  over  the  image, 
as  if  I  would  wash  it  out  with  my  tears.  As  one 
Btruggleth  for  life,  so  struggled  I  for  something 
with  which  I  might  blot  it  out  forever. 

"  A  gain  the  sunlight  waves  ebbed  and  flowed, 
and  again  the  shining  mirror  was  before  me.  Far 
down  in  its  silvery  depths,  I  now  discerned  a  figure 
of  glorious  and  yet  familiar  form  and  features. 
No  trace  of  care  was  on  that  brow,  the  eye 
sparkled  with  beautiful  intelligence,  and  peaceful 
beyond  description  was  the  smile  on  the  lip.  I 
looked  within,  —  the  struggles  of  that  heart  had 
ceased,  its  warfare  ended.  Sin  no  more  had  do- 
minion there,  —  and  now,  like  a  pent-up  fountain 
suddenly  released,  its  pure  affections  came  gush- 
ing forth..  They  needed  a  glorified  body  by  which 


112  MEMORIAL. 

to  express  themselves.  That  intellect,  freed  also 
from  mortal  chains,  how  wondrous  were  its  capa- 
cities !  It  sought  out,  and  grasped,  and  appropri- 
ated to  itself,  all  Truth.  Free  from  doubt,  and 
unerring  in  its  decisions,  it  seemed  like  a  giant 
armed.  Something  whispered  to  me  that  this  im- 
age which  I  now  saw,  was  also  my  own.  It  was 
the  image  of  that  which,  when  I  had  passed  the 
dim  boundary  of  this  life,  I  should  be — a  redeemed 
soul,  with  sanctified  heart  and  illuminated  mind. 
I  gazed  upon  it,  '  lost  in  wonder,  love,  and  praise.' 
I  panted  to  be  'unclothed/  that  I  might  be 
*  clothed  upon.' " 


THE  PURITAN  FAMILY. 


10* 


THE  PURITAN  FAMILY, 


THE   LANDING. 

IN  the  early  part  of  September,  164-,  occurred 
one  of  the  great  events  of  those  days,  to  the  colony 
of  Massachusetts.  It  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  an  arrival  from  Old  England  of  a  vessel 
filled  with  emigrants  who  had  come,  some  to  seek 
their  fortune,  and  some  to  worship  God.  Boston 
Harbor  bade  them  welcome,  and  a  crowd  was 
gathered  on  the  wharf  to  receive  them.  They 
were  a  '  goodlie  companie,'  and  many  of  them  as 
they  leaped  ashore  threw  back  their  heads  and 
stretched  their  limbs,  and  took  '  long  breaths,'  as 
if  the  relief  they  felt  from  the  confinement  of  forty 
days  on  shipboard  were  heightened  by  a  new  sense 
of  civil  and  religious  freedom  which  expanded 
their  huge  frames.  A  little  apart  from  the  crowd 
stood  a  small  group  of  three  —  Mrs.  Allerton, 
Arabella  her  daughter,  and  Hetty,  a  faithful  old 
servant.  Mr.  Allerton  was  running  hither  and 


116  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY.'  « 

thither,  collecting  their  most  necessary  baggage. 
It  was  nearly  noon,  and  the  rays  of  the  lingering 
summer  fell  hotly  upon  them,  as  they  stood  there 
unsheltered  Mrs.  Allerton  had  passed  the  prime 
of  life,  but  was  still  attractive  in  person  and  man- 
ner. Her  eye  wandered  over  the  embryo  city 
which  had  nestled  down  so  closely  to  the  sea,  and 
she  did  so  with  an  anxious  expression,  for  there 
was  to  be  her  new  home.  Arabella  possessed  the 
beauty  of  the  lily,  —  delicate,  almost  too  delicate, 
it  should  seem,  to  bear  transplanting;  and  she 
stood  with  her  pensive  eye  wandering  back  over 
the  waters,  towards  the  home  she  had  left.  Hetty, 
by  no  means  an  unimportant  personage  in  the 
party,  watched  with  a  jealous  eye  each  piece  of 
baggage  as  it  was  handed  over  to  a  black  man, 
who  had  offered  the  services  of  himself  and  his 
cart. 

"  We  can  't  do  without  this  ;  we  must  have  that 
—  now  that  green  box  a'nt  put  in ;  Mrs.  Allerton, 
wont  you  please  say,  we  must  have  the  green 
box  ?  We  shall  need  it  the  fust  thing." 

"  Never  mind,  Hetty,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton  ;  "  we 
do  not  know  yet  what  we  want,  or  where  we  shall 

go" 

"  Not  where  we  shall  go  ?  My  eyes !  a'nt  there 
no  hotels  in  this  country  ?  Curious  place,  I  think," 
continued  she  —  talking  now  to  herself.  "  Wish 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  117 

ourselves  ^-ack,  I  am  thinking,  Miss  Bell ;  only 
see,  Mr.  Allerton  don't  think  of  the  red  trunk,  and 
it  has  got  all  your  dresses  in  it,  —  not  fit  to  be 
seen,  any  of  us." 

"  Hush,  Hetty,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton,  turning  her 
face  towards  the  vessel, "  they  are  going  to  prayer." 

A  large  party  of  emigrants  had  crowded  to- 
gether on  one  part  of  the  deck,  around  their  min- 
ister, —  and  with  closed  eyes  and  reverent  posture, 
they  united  with  him  in  returning  thanks  to  God, 
for  their  safe  voyage.  At  the  close  of  this  long 
prayer,  they  sung  a  psalm,  "  0  give  thanks  unto 
the  Lord,"  etc.  Mrs.  Allerton  joined  them  with 
a  sweet,  rich  voice,  and  as  it  appeared  with  her 
whole  heart.  Arabella  attempted  to  do  the  same, 
but  her  voice  trembled  and  she  turned  quite  away, 
to  hide  her  tears.  Hetty  looked  as  if  she  thought 
the  service  long,  and  the  sun  hot.  The  captain 
and  crew  of  the  vessel  paid  little  heed  to  the  pious 
thank  offering  of  their  puritan  passengers,  —  for 
during  their  long  summer  voyage,  they  had  become 
quite  accustomed  to  their  strange  ways,  inasmuch 
as  having  two  ministers  on  board,  they  had  had 
many  sermons  to  beguile  the  tedious  hours. 

The  news  of  the  arrival  of  this  vessel  soon 
spread ;  and  as  the  last  strain  of  the  chant  died 
away,  a  gentleman  approached,  before  whom  the 
crowd  parted  on  ei/her  side.  His  countenance 


118  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

was  mild  and  benevolent,  —  his  manners,  polished 
and  winning.  His  beard  descended  to  the  ruflj 
which  he  wore  about  his  neck,  and  his  dress  indi- 
cated a  person  of  authority.  It  was  Governor 
Winthrop. 

He  was  watching  the  landing  of  the  emigrants, 
with  much  interest,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  his  old 
friend,  Mr.  Allerton.  He  hastened  to  him,  and 
grasping  him  by  the  hand,  gave  him  a  warm  wel- 
come. So  cordial  was  the  greeting,  both  to  him 
and  his  family,  that  Mrs.  Allerton  felt  as  if  she 
had  met  a  brother;  and  the  weary,  and  somewhat 
dispirited,  party  revived  under  the  tones  of 
kindness. 

"  My  house  is  but  a  short  distance  from  here, 
Mrs.  Allerton,"  said  the  Governor;  "you  must 
make  it  your  home  for  the  present,  and  the  sooner 
you  are  out  of  this  hot  sun,  the  better.  Arabella 
looks  half  homesick  already;  see  how  she  watches 
the  old  ship,  as  if  now  it  were  more  attractive  than 
our  goodly  town  of  Boston.  Come  and  rest,  child ; 
then  we  will  show  you  something  better  than  this 
wharf.  You  will  love  New  England,  yet."  Gov. 
Winthrop  drew  Arabella's  arm  within  his,  and  the 
fair  pilgrim  felt  somewhat  comforted. 

Mr.  Allerton  and  Hetty  soon  overtook  them, 
and  the  whole  party  proceeded  to  Gov.  Winthrop's 
house.  It  was  a  low,  two-story  wooden  house, 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  119 

painted  with  some  attention  to  the  ornamental,  and 
furnished  with  blinds.  In  the  porch,  which  pro- 
jected over  the  front  door,  stood  Mrs.  Winthrop ; 
and  so  heartily  did  she  repeat  her  husband's  wel- 
come, that  her  visitors  felt  like  expected  guests. 
After  stopping  a  while  in  the  comfortable  parlor, 
they  were  conducted  to  their  own  rooms  that  they 
might  rest,  and  prepare  for  tea. 

The  chamber  over  the  parlor,  with  its  nice  white 
dimity  hangings,  was  assigned  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Allerton ;  a  small  room  over  the  entry,  to  Arabel- 
la ;  while  Hetty  took  her  place  in  the  servants' 
quarters.  Their  baggage,  as  it  arrived,  was  stowed 
away  in  a  loft  in  the  barn,  for  the  present,  except- 
ing the  invaluable  green  box  and  the  red  trunk, 
which  Hetty  made  bold  to  tell  the  Governor  "  they 
must  have,"  and  some  smaller  pieces.  She  bustled 
about  now,  in  earnest,  and  released  the  ladies' 
dresses  from  their  long  confinement,  and  wished 
them  to  appear  in  their  best  at  the  Governor's 
table. 

«  Oh  !  pray  Hetty,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton, "  fold  up 
those  damask  dresses,  and  give  us  something  more 
simple.  What  will  you  wear,  Arabella,  clear  ?  " 

"  Anything,"  said  Arabella,  looking  vacantly  out 
of  the  window  over  the  water.  Mrs.  Allerton  no- 
ticed her  absence  and  dejection,  and  spoke  to  her 
in  cheerful  tones. 


120  THE    PURITAN    FAMILY. 

"How  pleasant  everything  is  here,  daughter,-— 
is  it  not  ?  These  bed-hangings  remind  me  of  my 
own  room,  and  almost  carry  me  back  to  it,  they  are 
so  like  ours ;  and  I  noticed  that  the  window  of  your 
little  room  looks  out  to  the  west,  just  as  the  one 
in  your  study  at  home  does.  Then  to  be  received 
so  cordially,  to  meet  such  kind  friends,  and  find  a 
home  ready  for  us,  and  to  have  had  so  prosperous 
a  voyage,  —  why,  Bella  dear !  we  have  a  great 
deal  to  be  thankful  for." 

"  I  think  so,  too,  mother,"  replied  Arabella,  "and 
I  shall  soon  feel  cheerful  and  happy,  for  though  I 
love  Old  England,  yet  I  love  you  and  father  more  ; 
my  home  is  where  you  are." 

"  Miss  Bell,"  said  Hetty,  "  pray,  let  me  braid 
your  hair.  Your  father  wont  like  it  at  all  to  see 
you  at  the  table  with  it  in  such  a  snarl  —  and  the 
Governor  and  his  lady  there  too." 

"  Do  what  you  please,  good  Hetty,"  said  Ara- 
bella, pulling  out  her  comb  and  letting  her  dark 
hair  fall  down  over  her  shoulders.  She  looked  up 
to  her  mother  at  the  same  time,  and  tried  to  smile 
in  answer  to  her  good  cheer.  She  had  a  little 
struggle,  but  she  kept  back  some  truant  drops,  that 
otherwise  would  have  dimmed  her  deep  blue  eyes. 
'  Poor  little  pilgrim  ! '  she  yearned  for  her  old  home. 


II. 

NEIGHBORS. 

WHILE  it  was  yet  early,  a  little  bell,  ringing  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  announced  the  tea-hour  at 
Gov.  Winthrop's.  Our  travellers,  now  dressed 
sufficiently  to  satisfy  Hetty,  and  being  certainly 
much  improved  in  appearance,  joined  the  Governor 
and  his  lady  in  the  parlor,  where  the  table  was 
laid.  Gov.  "Winthrop's  son  was  now  presented 
to  the  visitors.  He  was  social  and  courteous,  and 
made  an  effort  to  draw  out  the  timid  stranger. 
With  her  beauty  he  had  become  quite  well  ac- 
quainted during  the  very  long  blessing  which  his 
father,  as  usual,  pronounced. 

So  many  questions  were  asked  and  answered, 
that  it  was  dark  when  the  party  rose  from  the 
table.  The  evening  was  unusually  mild,  and  the 
elder  gentlemen  withdrew  to  the  settee  on  the 
stoop,  to  finish  their  conversation,  while  the  ladies 
sat  back  a  little  in  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Winthrop 
was  busy  with  netting,  which,  however,  did  not 
at  ah1  diver.t  her  attention  from  her  guests.  The 
younger  Winthrop  described  to  Arabella,  some  of 
the  attractions  of  Boston.  Thus  passed  our  emi- 
11 


122  THE    PURITAN   FAMILY. 

grants'  first  evening  in  New  England.  When  the 
large  clock  in  the  hall  struck  the  hour  of  nine, 
Gov.  Winthrop  rose, — 

"  Our  habits  are  very  simple  here,"  said  he  to 
Mr.  Allerton  ;  "  it  is  the  hour  for  family  prayer." 
Mrs.  Winthrop  called  the  domestics.  The  younger 
Winthrop,  by  his  father's  request  read  the  chaptei 
next  in  course  ;  a  psalm  was  given  out  in  couplets. 
which  the  family  joined  in  singing  ;  prayer  then 
followed,  and  all  soon  retired  to  rest. 

Arabella  accompanied  her  mother  into  hei 
room,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  separate  from  her 
"  A  good  night's  sleep,"  said  her  father,  "  will 
make  Boston  another  place  ;  come  here,  Bella  ;  I 
want  to  see  more  color  in  those  cheeks ;  the  sea 
has  paled  them.  Do  not  you  think  you  will  be 
happy  here  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  be  happy  here,  dear  father,"  said 
Arabella,  throwing  her  arms  around  him,  and 
fondly  caressing  him. 

"  Let  us  unite  in  prayer  in  our  own  room,"  said 
Mr.  Allerton,  "  that  we  may  render  thanks  unto 
God  for  his  mercies  towards  us  individually." 
Saying  this,  he  knelt,  with  his  wife  and  daughter 
by  his  side. 

"  Now,  good-night,  my  child  ;"  and  "  good-night' 
again,  from  the  mother  —  and  with  Hetty  to  attend 
to  all  her  little  wants,  the  idolized  clfild  retired  to 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  123 

her  room  to  sleep  soundly  and  sweetly,  and  wake — 
for  the  first  time  in  New  England. 

A  fortnight  passed  rapidly  away,  while  Mr.  Al- 
lerton  and  his  family  remained  the  guests  of  Gov. 
"Winthrop.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time,  he  hud 
hired  a  house,  —  out  from  the  more  thickly  settled 
part  of  the  town,  with  a  small  farm ;  hoping  that 
this,  together  with  the  remnant  of  his  reduced 
property,  would  suffice  for  the  maintenance  of  his 
family. 

This  house,  after  the  fashion  of  the  times,  was 
built  two  stories  in  front,  and  sloped  down  to  one 
in  the  rear.  The  small  windows  made  of  diamond- 
shape  glass,  set  in  sashes  of  lead,  opened  outward 
on  hinges.  A  large  yard  in  front,  shaded  by  two 
venerable  elms,  gave  a  pleasant  and  attractive  air 
to  this  spot. 

"  It  is  everything  we  could  desire,"  said  Mrs. 
Allerton,  as  with  real  pleasure  she  walked  about 
the  premises.  "  It  is  far  beyond  what  I  supposed 
we  could  obtain  without  waiting  to  build.  Bella, 
dear,  we  will  put  a  porch  out  on  this  side,  and 
transplant  that  grape-vine  for  you,  and  you  will 
like  to  sit  there  in  the  shade,  and  read  and  sew." 

"  I  thought  of  that  myself,"  said  Mr.  Allerton. 
"  It  could  very  easily  be  done ;  we  will  attend  to 
it  early  in  the  spring." 

"  You  shbuld  not  think  so  much  of  me,"  said 


124  THE   PURITAN    FAMILY. 

Arabella.  "  You  must  care  for  your  own  comfort, 
dear  mother.  I  am  young  "  —  "  and  strong,"  she 
would  have  added,  but  checked  herself. 

"  The  water  is  nigh  the  house,  and  that  is  one 
comfort,"  said  Hetty,  "  but  who  are  we  to  have  for 
neighbors,  I  wonder,  in  that  little  brown  house 
there  ?  I  hope  they  are  good  natur'd,  as  long  as 
they  are  so  nigh." 

"  Good  day  to  you,  good-man  and  good-wife,  and 
a  welcome  to  our  new  country.  You  are  to  live 
here,  I  suppose  ?  "  inquired  some  one  so  near  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  voice  must  have  come  from 
one  of  their  party.  "  I  am  the  neighbor  whom 
that  woman  was  just  asking  for,  and  I  live  very  nigh 
you.  Shall  be  glad  to  help  you  any  about  setting 
to  rights,  if  I  can.  My  name  is  Mercy  Whitman. 
They  call  me  Mercy,  mostly.  I  am  a  poor  lone 
widow.  My  husband  —  the  Lord  love  him  —  was 
shot  by  the  Inj ins,  more  than  five  year  ago.  '  The 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  took  away.'  " 

"  Have  you  children,  Mercy  ?  "  kindly  inquired 
Mrs.  Allerton.  Mercy,  before  replying,  climbed 
over  a  stone  fence,  behind  which  she  had  been 
concealed,  and  approached  nearer.  She  was  a 
short,  stout  woman,  dressed  in  a  blue  checked  short 
gown  and  petticoat,  and  she  wore  a  very  high- 
crowned  cap,  which  was  not  altogether,  as  clean  as 
it  might  have  been.  Her  gray,  frizzled  hair,  es- 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  125 

caping  from  under  it,  hung  about  a  sallow  and 
wrinkled  face,  lighted  by  a  pair  of  keen  gray  eyes, 
which  had  a  sinister  expression.  Hetty  declared 
afterwards  that  "  they  made  her  think  of  a  wolf, 
or  an  Injin,  or  some  such  cretur." 

"  Not  a  living  chick  in  the  world,"  said  Mercy, 
u  to  call  me  mother.  My  boy  died  the  winter  after 
his  father,  and  there  he  lies  under  that  apple  tree 
in  my  garden." 

Hetty  surveyed  the  new  acquaintance  from  head 
to  foot,  and  with  a  secret  feeling  of  dislike  to 
everything  about  her,  walked  on  rapidly  and  en- 
tered the  house. 

"  Can't  I  help  you  any?"  said  Mercy.  "  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to.  My  work  is  up  for  to-day." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton,  stepping 
past  her.  "  "We  have  not  much  to  do  at  present. 
If  I  should  want  you  at  any  time,  I  will  call  upon 
you.  Good  morning." 

Mercy  saw  the  unpacked  boxes,  through  the 
half-open  door ;  and  vexed  a  little  that  she  could 
not  satisfy  her  curiosity,  and  yet  not  daring  to 
press  the  matter  farther  with  the  stranger  lady, 
she  returned  the  salutation^  and  left  them ;  but 
slyly  went  round  back  of  the  house  to  the  kitchen, 
hoping  to  find  more  favor  with  'the  woman.' 

Hetty  was  pulling  violently  at  a  cupboard  door, 
which  seemed  to  be  glued  up. 
11* 


126  THE  PURITAN   TAMIL T. 

"  Bless  ye,  let  me  try,"  said  Mercy,  "  pull  at  top 
and  bottom  both  —  here,  I'll  show  ye  —  I'll  have 
it  in  a  minute." 

"  No,"  said  Hetty,  not  very  well  pleased,  "  I 
thank  ye  ;  but  if  I  can't  open  it  myself,  I'll  let  it 
go."  Mercy  looked  on  ;  Hetty  tugged,  and  turned 
red  in  the  face,  and  broke  her  nails.  Mercy  stood 
etill  and  laughed.  Hetty  lost  her  patience  —  of 
•which  she  had  not  a  very  large  stock. 

"  You  had  better  be  a-doing  something  else  than 
looking  at  your  neighbors,"  said  she,  in  a  passion. 

"  0  that  is  it,  is  it  ?  Well,  I'll  take  myself  off, 
then.  It's  a  pity  if  folks  can't  be  civil  when  others 
come  to  do  them  a  kindness,  I  think,"  said  Mercy, 
reddening  in  her  turn. 

Fortunately  the  door  yielded,  and  Hetty  felt 
better.  "  There,"  said  she,  "  if  I  had  taken  your 
advice,  Mistress  Mercy,  I  should  not  have  broken 
my  nails ;  and  now  if  you  will  draw  up  a  bucket 
of  water  for  me,  I'll  do  as  much  for  you  some 
time." 

Mercy  was  but  half  appeased.  The  first  shot 
had  been  fired.  It  was  said,  many  miles  around, 
that  Mercy  never  forgot  an  injury,  and  people 
generally  were  afraid  of  her. 


III. 

WINTER    IN   THE   " 'WILDERNESSE." 

BY  the  first  of  October,  our  emigrants  were 
settled  in  their  new  home.  Elegant  it  was  not ; 
for  as  the  deputy-governor  had  been  censured  for 
wainscoting  his  house,  Mr.  Allertcn  would  not 
venture  to  offend  the  prejudices  of  the  good  peo- 
ple by  any  superfluities.  Mrs.  Allerton  and  Ara- 
bella, though  equally  considerate,  did  not  hit  the  line 
eo  exactly ;  for  many  things  which  seemed  to  the 
settlers  as  superfluities,  were  to  them  but  matters 
of  ordinary  comfort.  Some  furniture  they  had 
brought  with  them :  a  carpet  that  covered  the  floor 
of  the  room  which  was  to  be  both  parlor  and  bed- 
room for  guests ;  some  heavy,  curiously  carved 
mahogany  chairs,  standing  on  lions'  claws ;  a  small 
bookcase ;  a  set  of  oaken  drawers,  alio  curiously 
•wrought.  These,  with  three  or  four  family  por- 
traits in  rich  frames,  gave  an  aristocratic  air  to  the 
best  parlor.  The  other  parlor,  being  the  room  in 
which  they  chiefly  lived,  had  no  carpet.  Two 
heavy  mahogany  tables  stood  upon  its  white  sand- 
ed floor,  and  its  walls  were  thickly  hung  with  Ara- 
bella's  paintings,  all  of  which  her  father  had  care- 


128  THE    PURITAN    FAMILY. 

fully  preserved.  Two  large,  high-backed  chairs 
stood  in  each  corner  of  the  huge  fireplace.  Back 
of  these  two  parlors  was  the  kitchen  and  a  small 
room  opening  into  it,  originally  intended  for  a  bed 
room,  but  now  used  by  Mr.  Allerton  as  a  library. 
Here  were  collected  all  the  books  that  he  had  been 
able  to  bring  over.  Hetty's  quarters  were  quite 
capacious,  and  on  the  whole,  convenient.  She 
would  sometimes  grumble  about  leaving  so  many 
comforts  behind  in  England,  —  yet,  in  the  main, 
she  found  more  to  praise  than  to  find  fault  with. 

Thus,  almost  necessarily,  their  house  had  an 
appearance  of  style  which  was  much  beyond  that 
of  their  neighbors,  and  which  at  first  made  the 
neighbors  a  little  shy. 

But  as  acquaintance  increased,  this  wore  entire- 
ly away.  Mr.  Allerton  became  very  popular,  and 
was  esteemed  as  a  kind,  charitable,  godly  man, 
one  whose  house  and  purse  were  open  to  relieve 
the  suffering,  —  a  "real  New  England  iSouldier, 
whom  the  Lord  Christ  having  prepared  for  his 
work  in  England,  had  now  sent  over  to  fight  his 


Mrs.  Allerton  was  courteous  and  hospitable,  with 
a  word  of  sympathy  for  all  who  needed  it.  They 
esteemed  her  as  "  likewise  a  godly  Woman,  indued 
by  Christ  with  graces  fit  for  a  Wildernesse  con- 
dition, whose  courage  was  exceeding  great,  and 


THE   PURITAX   FAMILY.  129 

who,  with  much  cheerfulness,  did  undergoe  all  dif- 
ficulties ;  and  who  had  brought  up  her  child  to  be 
an  honour  to  Christ." 

They  were  thus  established  in  their  house,  and 
in  the  affections  of  the  people,  when  the  cold,  New 
England  winter  found  them.  It  brought  with  it 
many  hardships. 

The  change  from  a  condition  of  ease,  plenty, 
and  comfort,  to  their  present  one,  for  Mrs.  Aller- 
ton  and  Arabella,  was  very  great.  The  winter  set 
in  suddenly,  and  with  violent  snow-storms.  They 
found  themselves,  one  November  morning,  almost 
buried  in  the  drifts.  Their  house  was  not  tightly 
built,  and  the  bitter  cold  wind  whistled  in,  all 
around  them.  No  part  of  the  house  was  habitable 
but  the  sitting-room  and  kitchen,  and  these  were 
made  so  only  by  enormous  fires.  Hetty  affirmed 
that  "  the  side  of  the  bed  where  she  did  n't  lie  was 
covered  with  snow,  and  one  end  of  her  pillow 
froze  down.  Such  doings  she  never  heard  of 
afore." 

To  sit  over  the  fire  and  make  themselves  com- 
fortable, was  out  of  question  ;  there  was  too  much 
to  be  done.  No  help  could  be  hired  in  the  region, 
for  love  or  money,  and  all  the  indoor  work  for  the 
actual  support  of  the  family,  came  upon  these 
three.  Poor  Hetty,  scarcely  allowing  herself  time 
to  eat,  worked  early  and  late  to  save  her  mistress 


130  THE    PURITAN    FAMILY. 

and  Miss  Bella  ;  but  though  she  taxed  her  indus- 
try and  ingenuity  to  the  utmost,  she  could  not  do 
everything.  In  this  "  wildernesse,"  through  such 
cruel  weather,  all  who  lived  must  work. 

This  first  snow-storm  we  have  noticed,  was  a 
fair  specimen  of  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

"  Yes,  snowing  again  to-day,  Bella  dear,"  said 
Mr.  Allerton,  "  but  our  logs  burn  cheerfully.  Get 
into  the  chimney  corner,  child.  You  had  better 
move  up  your  stand  there  and  finish  that  drawing  j 
it  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you  with  your 
pencil.  It  will  amuse  you  this  dull  day,  darling." 

"  I  wish  you  would  urge  her  to,"  said  Mrs.  AL- 
lerton  ;  "  she  works  much  beyond  her  strength ;  I 
cannot  persuade  her  to  spare  herself." 

"  When  you  will  spare  yourself,  dear  mother, 
then  will  I,"  replied  Arabella. 

"  No  need  of  either  of  you  working,  and  I  tell 
'em  so  every  day  of  their  lives,  but  it  don't  do  no 
good ;  they  will  keep  at  it,"  said  Hetty,  who  just 
entered  with  an  armful  of  wood.  "I  wish  you 
would  put  a  stop  to  it,  if  you  please,  sir.  Mis- 
tress even  takes  hold  of  the  washing,  as  if  I  was 
not  old  enough  to  do  a  washing.  They'll  both  of 
'em  kill  themselves,  and  I  tell  'em  so,  but  they 
won't  mind  me,  sir." 

"  Can't  you  get  any  help  about  the  heaviest  of 
the  work,  Hetty,"  inquired  Mr.  Allerton. 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  131 

"  Not  a  living  mortal,  sir,  except  Mercy  Whit- 
man, and  for  my  part  I  'd  work  till  I  dropped,  afore 
I  'd  have  her  about.  I  believe  she's  a  witch,"  mum- 
bled she  in  an  under-tone. 

"  You  work  now  as  long  as  you  can  stand,  Het- 

*•"  ^ 

"  Not  I,  mistress ;  and  if  I  do,  it 's  not  because 
I  work  hard,  or  am  getting  old.  It  is  this  villan- 
ous  country,  with  its  horrid  storms.  When  one's 
bed  clothes  freeze  to  'em,  I  do  n't  know  why  their 
bones  should  n't  ache.  If  we  were  only  back  again 
in  old  England,  we  would  think  twice  afore  we 
crossed  the  ocean,  —  that's  my  mind." 

"  Blessed  be  the  Lord  who  has  gloriously  upheld 
us,"  said  Mr.  Allerton ;  "  if  this  great  work  of 
planting  here  the  pure  religion  of  Christ  were  be- 
fore me,  and  ten  thousand  oceans,  I  would  cross 
them  all  to  do  it." 

Mrs.  Allerton  approached  gently,  and  put  her 
toand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Amen,"  said  she,  in  a 
deep,  earnest  voice.  "  Let  us  rejoice  that  we  are 
accounted  worthy  to  suffer  for  His  sake.  Not  for 

all  England  could  offer,  would  I  turn  back,  if" 

the  mother's  voice  trembled,  for  her  moistened  eye 
fell  upon  her  fragile  daughter,  and  the  sentence 
was  unfinished.     For  a  moment,  faith  wavered. 
.    u  We  will  cast  all  our  cares  upon  the  Lord," 


132  THE   PUTilTAN   FAMILY. 

said  Mr.  Allerton,  "  and  assuredly  the  wants  of 
this  wildernesse  vill  never  hurt  us." 

"  I  s'pose  so,"  said  Hetty,  "  but  pray  what  are 
we  to  do  for  bread ;  our  last  peck  of  meal  is  in  the 
oven  baking,  and  we  have  had  nothing  to  eat 
this  fortnight,  but '  mussells  and  clambanks.'  Miss 
Bell  can't  eat  this  corn  bread,  and  the  fish  does  ri't 
suit  her.  She  has  n't  put  enough  into  her  mouth 
this  week,  to  keep  a  robin  alive." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  good  Hetty,"  said  Bella, 
smiling.  "  You  forget  how  much  milk  I  drink. 
What  can  be  better  than  such  nice  fresh  milk.  I 
miss  our  old  luxuries  much  less  than  mother  does." 

"  Our  cattle  will  die  next  thing,  if  we  have 
many  more  such  cold  snaps,"  replied  Hetty,  quite 
determined  not  to  be  pleased  with  anything  in 
a  country  where  it  snowed  every  day  in  the  week. 

Her  remarks  were  interrupted  by  a  violent  rat- 
tling at  the  kitchen  door. 

"  Who  can  that  be  at  this  time  of  day,  I  won- 
der," said  she,  as  she  hastened  to  open  it.  A 
strong  gust  of  wind  blinded  her  with  the  driving 
enow. 

"  I  ran  in  to  see  if  your  good-man  was  in  want 
of  meal,"  said  Mercy  Whitman,  pushing  her  way 
into  the  kitchen.  "  I  thought  he  could  n't  get  to 
mill  this  week,  and  I  have  more  than  I  need." 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  133 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  you,  Mercy,"  said  Mrs.  Al- 
lerton,  speaking  quickly,  that  she  might  anticipate 
Hetty's  short  answer.  "  The  last  we  have  is  now 
in  the  oven.  We  will  take  it  from  you  gladly." 

"  "Wont  you  walk  in  and  warm  you  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  good-wife,  but  I  can't  stop  this 
morning,  I  'm  in  a  hurry,"  said  Mercy,  at  the  same 
time  coming  in.  O  no,  no,  child,  keep  your  seat 
I  've  no  time  to  spend  warming  my  old  bones ;  and 
it's  not  much  matter  either;  the  Lord  has  'most 
done  with  me  for  this  world  ;  I  wait  his  summons. 
This  is  a  nice,  warm  corner,  child,  and  I  do  not 
care  if  I  just  turn  the  snow  out  of  my  shoes." 

Arabella's  seat  was  so  comfortable,  that  Mercy 
was  not  very  expeditious  in  clearing  her  shoes. 
She  had  as  usual  much  scandal  to  tell,  and  many 
impertinent  questions  to  ask ;  our  friends,  though 
tliej,  treated  her  kindly,  were  not  sorry  to  see  her 
at  length  rise  to  go. 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  quick  and  shut  that  door 
after  you,"  said  Hetty  to  her ;  "  you  '11  let  in  more 
snow  than  I  can  get  out  in  a  week." 

"  You  may  shut  your  own  doors,"  said  Mercy, 
"  if  you  are  a  mind  to  be  so  crusty  as  that,"  —  and 
she  left  the  door  wide  open. 

Hetty  bestowed  upon  her  some  epithet  which, 
fortunately,  the  howling  wind  blew  quite  out  of 
her  hearing. 

12 


134  THE    PURITAN*    FAMILY. 

"  They  never  agree,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton,  closing 
the  sitting-room  door,  "  and  I  do  not  much  wonder 
at  it." 

"  How  wonderfully  has  the  Lord  provided  for 
us,"  said  Mr.  Allerton,  who  had  not  noticed  this 
little  episode  between  Hetty  and  Mercy.  "  As- 
suredly, even  at  the  last  cast,  he  is  near  to  those 
who  trust  in  Him.  He  put  it  into  her  heart  to  come 
and  offer  us  her  meal,  when  our  stock  was  gone, 
and  we  could  see  no  other  way  of  obtaining  it.  I 
believe  that  Christ  would  rather  rain  bread  from 
heaven  than  that  his  people  should  want,  while 
they  keep  about  his  work.  Let  us  return  thanks 
unto  Him  for  this  seasonable  supply." 

They  knelt  around  their  crackling  fire,  and  en- 
joyed to  the  full  the  expression  of  the  sweet  con- 
sciousness that  God  was  feeding  them  ;  then,  they 
went  cheerfully  to  their  day's  labors. 

Hetty's  remarks  about  the  work,  however,  made 
a  deep  impression  upon  Mr.  Allerton.  So  uncom- 
plainingly and  quietly  had  his  wife  and  daughter 
performed  the  hard  labor  of  the  family,  that  the 
necessary  amount  of  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  until 
Hetty  enlightened  him.  He  saw  now,  plainly,  that 
they  were  taxed  beyond  their  strength,  and  he 
cast  about  in  his  mind  to  see  what  could  be  done  to 
relieve  them. 


IV. 

THE   PURITAN   HOME. 

A  DESCRIPTION  of  one  short  day,  during  this 
long  and  tedious  winter,  will  answer  for  many. 

Hetty  rose  at  five  every  morning,  and  bustled 
about  quickly,  to  have  her  fires  well  burning  and 
a  hot  breakfast  ready  for  the  family  at  half  past 
six.  Often  with  sighs,  and  perhaps  with  tears 
which  she  in  vain  dashed  away,  she  dished  up  the 
coarse,  and  sometimes  scanty  food,  —  and  yet  with 
a  delicate  thoughtfulness,  she  would  arrange  it  on 
the  table  as  much  after  the  manner  to  which  they 
had  been  accustomed  as  the  materials  she  had, 
enabled  her  to  do  so. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  prayers  occupied 
usually  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Mr.  Allerton 
read  from  a  commentary,  and  invariably  had  a 
psalm  sung.  His  wife  and  daughter  were  sweet 
singers,  and  even  Hetty  could  join  in  this  part  of 
family  worship.  After  this  exercise,  with  hearts 
comforted,  and  faith  strengthened,  and  hope  smiling 
upon  them,  they  separated  about  their  day's  toils. 

Their  house,  like  many  others  built  at  that  time, 
"faced  the  south,"  that  the  sun  might  "shine  in 


136  THE   PUEITAK   FAMILY. 

square  at  noon,"  and  mark  the  dinner-hour,  which 
was  precisely  twelve  o'clock.  This  domestic  sun- 
dial was  very  convenient.  Mr.  Allerton  had 
brought  out  a  valuable  time-piece,  but  it  had  been 
so  much  injured  on  the  passage  as  to  be  nearly 
useless. 

At  twelve,  they  refreshed  themselves  with  their 
frugal  dinner.  Mrs.  Allerton  would  often  force 
herself  to  partake  of  what  was  far  from  inviting 
to  her,  for  her  husband's  sake;  but  many  articles 
of  diet  so  evidently  disagreed  with  Arabella,  that 
her  mother  was  not  willing  to  have  her  use  them. 
Corn  bread,  in  particular,  poorly  suited  her.  So, 
at  length,  she  was  reduced  almost  entirely  to  milk 
and  the  scanty  supply  of  eggs  they  could  procure. 
Notwithstanding  this,  their  meals  were  cheerful ; 
they  received  their  food,  as  it  were,  directly  from 
the  hand  of  God ;  and  they  felt  that  what  He  had 
provided  for  them,  was  on  the  whole  the  best  for 
them.  The  very  coarseness  and  scantiness  of  their 
food  they  regarded  as  trials  of  their  faith  and  love, 
and  a  proof  that  God  had  not  forgotten  them,  but 
chastened  them  in  love.  Did  they  want  for  bread, 
they  cheerfully  fed  upon  fish,  and  had  heavenly 
discourse  of  the  provision  which  Christ  had  once 
made  for  many  thousands  of  his  followers  in  the 
wilderness."  Thus  linked  to  heaven  and  Christ  in 
heart  and  purpose,  ever  struggling  upwards,  and 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  13 1 

1/c.!ieving  in  the  rich  promises  of  success,  their  de- 
f  r •  ration  and  toils  shrunk  away,  and  seemed  to 
t-.i-m  but  as  incidents  to  a  glorious  mission. 

Their  dinner  over,  a  part  of  the  afternoon  was 
occupied  in  necessary  labor.  This  through,  Mrs. 
Allerton  and  Arabella  dressed,  and  sat  down  to 
their  needle.  The  short  twilight  was  soon  gone, 
and  before  tea  and  lights  were  brought  in,  Mr. 
Allerton  usually  joined  them,  and  drawing  around 
tueir  bright  fire,  they  spent  the  pleasant  hour  in 
social  and  religious  conversation.  After  tea,  Mrs. 
Allerton  resumed  her  needle,  while  Mr.  Allerton 
read  aloud.  Arabella,  occupied  with  coarse  wool- 
len knitting,  sat  far  in  the  chimney  corner,  often 
listening  to  her  father,  and  often  looking  up  through 
the  huge  chimney,  to  far  distant,  silent  stars, 
—  as  distant  and  silent,  as  the  answering  voice  to 
thoughts  hidden  deep  in  her  soul. 

Hetty  kept  still  at  work.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aller- 
ton often  called  her  to  join  the;n,  but  she  had  al- 
ways some  excuse,  and  worked  on,  until  summoned 
to  evening  prayers.  Then  again  they  joined  in  a 
song  of  thanksgiving  for  a  day's  mercies,  and  re- 
tired always  at  nine  o'clock  to  rest. 

Saturday  night  at  sunset,  all  work  was  suspend- 
ed. On  the  Lord's  day,  Mr.  Allerton,  with  his 
family,  attended  Divine  service  at  the  church  in 
12* 


138  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

Boston,  under  the  care  of  Rev.  Mr.  Wilson.  The 
distance  was  so  great,  they  rode,  and  were  always 
invited  by  the  hospitable  governor  to  spend  the  in- 
termission with  him.  They  also  returned  to  his 
house,  at  the  close  of  the  afternoon  service,  and 
remained  there  until  after  family  prayers.  It  was 
Governor  Winthrop's  habit  to  assemble  his  fami- 
ly, to  read  to  them  from  the  Bible,  and  then  re- 
peat to  them  the  sermons  which  he  had  heard 
through  the  day.  This  he  did  from  memory,  as 
he  never  allowed  himself  to  take  notes.  He  was 
very  constant  in  this,  and  required  all  his  family 
to  be  present. 

Mr.  Allerton  was  much  interested  in  Mr.  Wil- 
son's preaching.  Governor  Winthrop  remarked 
of  it,  "it  was  after  the  primitive  fashion.  It  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  exhortations  and  admonitions,  and 
good  wholesome  counsels,  which  would  excite  good 
motions  in  the  minds  of  his  people." 

"  Yes,"  replied  I>Ir.  Allerton,  "  and  sometimes 
•when  I  hear  him,  there  is  such  a  spirit  in  him,  I 
feel  almost  as  if  I  were  listening  to  an  apostle." 

Edified  and  encouraged  thus  by  the  godly 
preaching,  and  also  by  the  conversation  and  ex- 
ample of  Governor  Winthrop,  the  Lord's  day  was 
rich  in  spiritual  enjoyment  to  Mr.  Allerton  and  his 
family.  They  hailed  its  return  with  joy,  —  and 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILT.  139 

with  its  declining  sun  they  again  thanked  God  that 
he  had  brought  them  where  they  might  worship 
him  in  simplicity  and  truth. 

The  Sabbath  also  furnished  to  Arabella  another 
source  of  enjoyment.  Herself  and  young  Win- 
throp  exchanged  books,  and  in  this  way  provided 
themselves  with  reading,  through  the  ensuing 
\veek, —  each  selecting  from  their  father's  library. 
Their  little  secret  arrangement  was,  that  Arabella 
should  leave  her's  on  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  from 
whence  Deane  Winthrop  should  take  it,  leaving 
his  in  return.  This  was  not  absolutely  necessary, 
as  Deane  most  generally  found  something  to  call 
him  out  to  Mr.  Allerton's  during  the  week ;  but  as 
their  reading  was  all  of  a  grave  character,  it  was 
not  unsuitable  to  their  rigid  habits  in  observing 
the  day. 

One  Sabbath  in  December,  they  met  the  younger 
Winthrop,  governor  of  Connecticut  and  New  Ha- 
ven, who  was  on  a  visit  to  his  father.  Having  so 
delightful  a  party,  they  lingered  somewhat  longer 
than  was  their  usual  custom.  Arabella  and  Deane 
were  speaking,  by  themselves,  of  the  young  gov- 
ernor, whose  appearance  and  manners  had  so 
much  interested  Arabella. 

"  You  must  love  him  very  much,"  said  she. 

"  That  I  do,"  replied  Deane,  quickly,  "  though 
he  is  not  my  own  brother ;  we  have  different 


140  THE    PURITAN    FAMILY. 

mothers,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  feels  almost  as 
much  interested  in  us  as  in  his  own  little  family. 
He  is  very  anxious  to  have  us  on  the  right  side. 
To-day,  he  handed  me  a  letter  which  my  father 
wrote  him  some  time  ago,  and  requested  me  to 
copy  it  and  keep  it  by  me  always,  and  live  up  to 
it." 

"  I  should  like  much  to  see  it,  if  I  may,"  said 
Arabella. 

"  Most  assuredly,  it  will  give  me  much  pleasure. 
I  have  already  taken  one  copy,  which  I  will  place 
in  the  book,  and  beg  you  will  retain." 

Arabella  thanked  him,  and  found  on  her  return, 
the  following,  in  Deane's  handwriting,  with  a  line 
or  two  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  which  was  not 
copied,  and  which,  therefore,  we  will  omit. 

There  may  be  young  readers  at  this  day,  who 
can  look  over  this  old  letter  of  Governor  Win- 
throp,  with  as  much  profit  as  it  gave  to  Deane 
and  Arabella. 

LETTER. 

"  You  are  the  chief  of  Two  Families  ;  I  had  by 
your  Mother  Three  Sons  and  Three  Daughters,  and 
I  had  with  her  a  Large  Portion  of  outward  Es- 
tate. These  now  are  all  gone ;  Mother  gone ; 
Brethren  and  Sisters  gone ;  you  only  are  left  to 
see  the  vanity  of  these  Temporal  things,  and  learn 
Wisdom  thereby,  which  may  be  of  more  use  to 
you,  through  the  Lord's  Blessing,  than  all  that 


THE   PURITAN   FAMILY.  141 

Inheritance  which  might  have  befallen  you :  And 
for  which  this  may  stay  and  quiet  your  Heart, 
That  God  is  able  to  give  you  more  than  this  ;  and 
that  it  hath  been  spent  in  the  furtherance  of  his 
Work,  which  hath  here  prospered  so  well,  through 
his  Power  hitherto,  you  and  yours  may  certain- 
ly expect  a  liberal  Portion  in  the  Prosperity  and 
J3lessing  thereof  hereafter;  and  the  rather  be- 
cause it  was  not  forced  from  you  by  a  Father's 
Power,  but  freely  resigned  by  yourself,  out  of 
a  loving  and  Filial  Respect  unto  me,  and  your 
own  readiness  unto  the  Work  itself.  From 
whence  as  I  do  often  take  Occasion  to  Bless  the 
Lord  for  you,  so  do  I  also  Commend  you  and 
yours  to  his  Fatherly  Blessing,  for  a  plentiful  Re- 
ward to  be  rendered  unto  you.  And  doubt  not, 
my  dear  son,  but  let  your  Faith  be  built  upon  his 
Promise  and  Faithfulness,  that  as  he  has  carried 
you  hitherto  through  many  Perils,  and  provided 
liberally  for  you,  so  he  will  do  for  the  time  to  come, 
and  will  never  fail  you,  nor  forsake  you.  My  son, 
the  Lord  knows  how  Dear  thou  art  to  me,  and  that 
my  Care  hath  been  more  for  thee  than  for  myself. 
But  1  know  thy  Prosperity  depends  not  on  my 
love,  nor  on  thine  own,  but  upon  the  Blessing  of 
our  Heavenly  Father  ;  neither  doth  it  on  the  things 
of  this  Wond,  but  on  the  Light  of  God's  Counte- 
nance through  the  Merit  and  Mediation  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  that  only  which  can  give 
us  Peace  of  Conscience  with  Contentation,  which 
can  as  well  make  our  Lives  Happy  and  Comfort- 
able in  a  mean  Estate  as  in  a  great  Abundance. 
But  if  you  weigh  things  aright,  and  sum  up  all 
the  Turnings  of  Divine  Providence  together,  you 


142  THE    PURITAN    FAMILY. 

shall  find  great  Advantage.  The  Lord  hath 
brought  us  to  a  Good  Land,  and  a  Land  where  we 
enjoy  outward  Peace  and  Liberty,  and  above  all, 
the  Blessings  of  the  Gospel,  without  the  Burden  of 
Impositions  in  matters  of  ReKfftGH.  Many  thous- 
ands there  are  who  would  give  Great  Estates  to 
enjoy  our  Condition.  Labour,  therefore,  my  good 
Son,  to  increase  our  Thankfulness  to  God  for  all 
his  mercies  to  thee,  especially  for  that  he  hath  re- 
vealed his  Everlasting  Good  Will  to  thee  in  Jesus 
Christ,  and  joined  thee  to  the  visible  Body  of  his 
Church,  in  the  Fellowship  of  his  People,  and  hath 
saved  thee  in  all  thy  Travails  abroad,  from  being 
infected  with  the  Vices  of  those  Countries  where 
thou  hast  been  (a  mercy  vouchsafed  unto  but  few 
young  Gentlemen  Travellers.}  Let  him  have  the 
Honour  of  it,  who  kept  thee.  He  it  was  who  gave 
thee  Favor  in  the  Eyes  of  all  with  whom  thou 
hadst  to  do  both  by  Sea  and  Land.  He  it  was 
who  saved  thee  in  all  Perils ;  and  He  it  is  who 
hath  given  thee  a  Gift  in  Understanding  and  Art ; 
and  He  it  is  who  hath  provided  thee  a  Blessing  in 
Marriage,  a  Comfortable  Help,  and  many  Sweet 
Children  ;  and  hath  hitherto  provided  liberally  for 
you  all :  And  therefore  I  would  have  you  to  Love 
him  again,  and  Serve  him,  and  Trust  him  for  the 
time  to  come.  Love  and  Prize  that  Vt'ord  of 
Truth,  which  only  makes  known  to  you  the  Pre- 
cious and  Eternal  Thoughts  and  Councils  of  the 
Light  Inaccessible.  Deny  your  oivn  ll'ist/inn,  I  hut 
you  may  find  his;  and  esteem  it  the  greatest  Hon- 
our to  lye  under  the  Simplicity  of  the  Gospel  of 
Christ  crucified,  without  which  you  can  never  en- 
ter into  the  Secrets  of  his  Tabernacle,  nor  enjoy 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  143 

those  sweet  things  which  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
Ear  heard,  nor  can  the  Heart  of  man  conceive  ;  but 
God  hath  granted  unto  some  few  to  know  them, 
even  in  this  Life.  Study  well,  my  son,  the  saying 
of  the  Apostle,  knowledge  pujfeth  up.  It  is  a  good 
Gift  of  God,  but  when  it  lifts  up  the  mind  above 
the  Cross  of  Christ,  it  is  the  Pride  of  Life,  and 
the  Highway  to  Apostasy,  wherein  many  men  of 
great  Learning  and  Hopes  have  perished.  In  all 
the  Exercise  of  your  Gifts,  and  Improvement  of 
your  Talents,  have  an  Eye  to  your  Master 's  End 
more  than  your  own  ;  and  to  the  Day  of  your  Ac- 
count, that  you  may  then  have  your  Quietus  est, 
even  Well  Done,  Good  and  Faithful  Servant.  But 
my  last  and  chief  Request  to  you  is,  that  you  be 
careful  to  have  your  Children  brought  up  in  the 
Knowledge  and  Fear  of  God,  and  in  the  Faith  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  This  will  give  you  the  best 
Comfort  of  them,  and  keep  them  sure  from  any 
Want  or  Miscarriage.  And  when  you  part  from 
them,  it  will  be  no  small  joy  to  your  Soul,  that  you 
shall  meet  them  again  in  Heaven." 


V. 


THE    PRAYER    OF    FAITH. 

MRS.  ALLERTOX,  about  mid-winter,  was  taken 
violently  ill.  She  had  been  enfeebled  for  some 
time,  looking  pale,  and  making  a  great  effort  to  per- 
form her  usual  duties.  She  found  herself  at  length, 
one  morning,  unable  to  rise,  and  her  illness  in- 
creased rapidly  during  the  forenoon.  Mr.  Aller- 
Jon  went  into  Boston  and  brought  out  the  physi- 
cian. He  pronounced  the  disease  to  be  a  billious 
fever,  and  said  that  it  must  "take  its  time; "  ordered 
some  medicines  ;  and  prescribed  "  patience  and 
good  nursing."  As  soon  as  he  had  taken  leave, 
Mrs.  Allerton  sent  for  Hetty  to  come  to  her. 

"  Hetty,"  said  she, "  I  am  going  to  be  ill  for 
some  time  ;  I  feel  it ;  and  I  shall  be  much  worse 
than  I  am  now.  I  know  very  well  that  there  is 
no  one  to  take  a  step  for  me  but  Miss  Bella  and 
you.  Now  you  must  go  at  once  over  to  Mercy 
Whitman,  and  say  that  I  should  like  to  have  her 
come  and  help  you,  this  morning.  The  bed  and 
hangings  must  be  removed  from  the  front  room 
into  the  sitting  room,  as  soon  as  possible,  that  I 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  145 

may  get  down  there.  It  will  save  you  much 
strength  in  taking  care  of  me." 

Mrs.  Allerton  spoke  so  positively,  that  Hetty 
dared  not  object.  She  called  upon  Mercy  very 
reluctantly ;  she  had  said  that  she  would  never 
darken  her  doors,  —  but  time  pressed,  her  mistress 
must  be  moved  before  night.  Mr.  Allerton  had 
gone  to  carry  the  Doctor  home,  and  Miss  Bella  sat 
with  her  mother.  She  delivered  the  message  as 
graciously  as  she  could,  and  Mercy  returned  with 
her. 

Mercy  had  many  questions  to  ask  about  the  cur- 
tains, as  they  took  them  down,  to  which  Hetty's 
answers  became  shorter  and  shorter  —  "  She  neith- 
er knew  nor  cared  how  much  they  cost,  nor  where 
they  came  from,"  she  said.  In  taking  down  the 
bedstead,  another  cause  of  dispute  arose.  Mercy 
insisted  upon  having  her  own  way,  and  wrenched 
the  posts  in  such  a  manner,  that  Hetty  at  length 
told  her,  "  She  was  a  great  fool,  and  she  did  n't  be- 
lieve she  ever  saw  a  bedstead  before." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you  think  I  lie 
on  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Lie  on  straw,  like  the  pigs,  for  all  I  know  or 
care,"  said  Hetty,  as  Mercy,  in  her  spite,  let  a 
heavy  post  fall  on  Hetty's  foot.  They  exchanged 
hi^h  words  which  were  fast  waxing  into  a  hot  dis- 

o  o 

pute,  when  Mr.  Allerton  returned,  and  seeing  how 
13 


146  THE    PURITAN   FAMILY. 

things  were,  dismissed  Hetty  to  the  chamber,  and 
himself,  with  Mercy's  assistance  prepared  the  room 
for  the  invalid. 

Mrs.  Allerton  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  make 
the  change  before  night,  thinking  she  might  not  be 
able  to  do  it  at  all,  should  it  be  deferred.  With 
great  exertion  she  came  down  stairs,  and  sunk  ex- 
hausted upon  her  pillow.  The  effort,  and  the  cold 
air  of  the  entries,  increased  her  fever.  She  tossed 
all  night  long  under  its  violence.  Mr.  Allerton 
sent  Arabella  and  Hetty  to  bed,  that  they  might 
be  able  to  take  care  of  her  during  the  day,  and 
himself  sat  watching  by  her  side.  She  seemed  so 
very  ill  that  he  went  again  early  in  the  morning 
for  the  physician.  The  case  had  assumed  a  more 
alarming  aspect  than  the  physician  had  expected ; 
and  he  remained  with  her,  kind  old  man,  through 
the  day.  Still,  she  became  rapidly  worse. 

The  weather  was  intensely  cold,  and  their  pro- 
visions had  fallen  short.  Almost  everything  that 
was  needed  for  the  sick  room,  they  were  obliged 
to  obtain  in  Boston.  It  was  a  long,  cold  ride,  and 
no  one  but  Mr.  Allertou  could  be  spared  for  it,  or 
could,  indeed,  endure  it.  Sickness  was  so  abun- 
dant around  them,  that  it  was  impossible  to  procure 
any  one  to  assist  Hetty.  She  worked  herself  al- 
most to  a  shadow.  Arabella  was  with  her  mother 
day  and  night;  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to 


THE    PURITAX    FAMILY.  147 

leave  her.  For  more  than  a  week  she  had  no 
rest  except  such  as  she  could  take  in  her  chair, 
while  her  mother  slept.  Pale  and  anxious,  scarce- 
ly eating  or  sleeping,  she  hung  over  the  precious 
sufferer,  without  a  thought  of  her  own  wasting 
strength. 

Days  passed ;  change  was  not  for  the  better,  but 
rather  for  the  worse.  It  was  evident  now,  that 
Mrs.  Allerton  was  fast  failing ;  and  unless  the  fe- 
ver soon  reached  its  height,  she  must  sink  into  the 
grave.  One  afternoon,  the  physician  looked  un- 
usually grave.  Arabella,  with  her  pale,  thin  lips 
tightly  closed,  fixed  her  deep,  earnest  eyes  upon 
him  as  if  to  watch  every  thought.  He  turned 
slowly  from  the  bed,  and  drawing  Mr.  Allerton's 
arm  within  his,  led  him  into  the  parlor  and  closed 
the  door.  For  a  moment,  neither  spake.  "  May 
God  support  you,  my  friend,"  said  he,  at  length. 
"  And  —  I  — must  —  lose  her  ?  "  said  Mr.  Allerton 
slowly,  as  if  the  thought  could  not  find  birth. 

"  I  see  no  hope  —  I  have  done  all,"  was  the 
reply.  The  doctor  pressed  his  hand  kindly,  and 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  passed  quickly  out,  and  left 
him  alone  with  God. 

What  that  struggle  was,  we  do  not  know,  —  but 
when  he  came  from  that  room,  it  was  over ;  rebel- 
lious thoughts  were  gone  —  "  May  God's  will  be 


148  THE  PURITAN   FAMILY. 

done,  and  his  name  glorified,  though  I  suffer,"  was 
the  feeling  of  his  soul.  It  seemed  as  if  angels  had 
ministered  to  him,  he  returned  so  calmly  to  the  bed- 
side of  his  dying  wife. 

And  Arabella,  the  gentle,  fragile,  dependent 
child,  seemed  in  this  hour  of  sorest  need,  to  be  up- 
held by  an  unseen  hand.  After  the  first  gush 
of  overwhelming  sorrow,  when  she  found  her 
father  had  given  up  hope,  she  also  became  calm 
and  submissive.  She  returned  to  his  side,  speak- 
ing to  him  sweetly  and  affectionately,  —  restrain- 
ing all  manifestations  of  grief,  for  his  sake  ;  and 
even  striving  to  comfort  Hetty,  whose  sorrow  was 
beyond  control. 

There,  on  that  bed,  lay  the  wife  and  mother  — 
foiling,  still  failing.  On  one  side  stood  her  husband, 
about  to  be  left  alone  in  a  strange  land  ;  in  a  desert 
land ;  on  the  other  side,  the  only  child,  a  daughter, 
frail  as  a  trembling  reed,  to  be  left  motherless  ;  —  in 
the  background  the  faithful  old  servant,  weeping 
violently  —  repining  that  she,  whose  old  life  was 
worth  so  little,  could  not  have  been  taken  instead. 
The  cold,  dreary  storm  howling  without,  —  the 
want  of  the  comforts  necessaiy  to  a  sick  room, — 
the  secret  longing  of  the  sufferer  (if,  indeed,  she 
Btill  felt  a  wish),  to  die  among  her  kindled,  and 
be  laid  to  rest  in  the  old  church-yard  with  her 


THE    PURITAN   FAMILY.  149 

fathers.  —  Could  the  dim  past  start  to  life,  how 
many  such  scenes  of  suffering,  among  those  who 
prepared  the  way  for  us,  would  it  picture  to  us  ! 

'•  Father,"  said  Arabella,  "  if  mother  should  re- 
vive so  as  to  be  conscious,  would  it  not  be  a  com- 
fort to  her  to  see  Mr.  Wilson,  and  have  him  with 
her  in  her  last  moments  ?  " 

Mr.  Allerton  had  the  same  thought,  but  it  was 
storming  violently ;  their  physician  had  been  called 
in  a  different  direction,  and  not  a  neighbor  had 
been  able  to  come  to  them  through  the  day.  The 
snow  lay  in  deep  drifts,  and  the  road  was  unbroken ; 
there  was  no  one  to  undertake  the  journey  but 
himself,  and  it  would,  at  the  least  calculation,  take 
him  away  from  that  bedside  three  or  four  hours  — 
could  that  expiring  flame  flicker  on  so  long  ?  "  Do 
you  think  she  would  know  him  ?  "  he  asked  Ara- 
bella, who  was  at  that  moment  touching  her  lips 
with  wine.  She  appeared  to  swallow  with  less 
difficulty  than  she  had  for  some  time  previous. 

"  Mother,"  whispered  Arabella,  "  if  you  would 
like  to  see  Mr.  "Wilson,  will  you  press  my  hand?" 
She  pressed  it  slightly,  and  made  an  effort  to  raise 
her  eyelids.  This  decided  Mr.  Allerton.  He  came 
to  her  ;  he  bent  over  her ;  the  hot  tears  fell  upon 
her  pale  forehead ;  he  knew  he  might  be  taking 
bis  hist  farewell.  "  You  know  how  much  I  have 
13* 


150  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

loved  you,"  he  whispered,  and  without  anothei 
look,  left  the  room. 

During  his  long  ride,  he  experienced  such  a 
sense  of  God's  presence,  of  His  holiness,  of  His 
love,  as  he  never  had  experienced  before,  and  he 
never  forgot  it.  His  whole  being  seemed  elevated, 
and  he  informed  Mr.  "Wilson  of  his  errand,  with- 
out a  murmuring  word  or  repining  thought. 

Mr.  Wilson  listened  in  silence,  but  with  great 
interest,  for  he  knew  and  justly  prized  Mrs.  Aller- 
ton.  When  he  had  heard  Mr.  Allertou  through, 
he  told  him  he  would  return  with  him,  but  not  im- 
mediately ;  he  had  something  to  do  in  his  study, 
which  he  must  first  attend  to.  A  shade  of  disap- 
pointment was  for  a  moment  visible  on  Mr.  Aller* 
ton's  countenance.  Mr.  Wilson  withdrew,  and 
Mrs.  Wilson  prepared  hastily  a  hot  supper  to  re- 
fresh her  guest.  In  about  half  an  hour,  Mr. 
Wilson  came  down,  his  face  bright  with  smiles. 

"  Mr.  Allerton,"  said  he,  "  I  have  been  praying 
that  God  would  spare  your  wife,  and  I  am  confi- 
dent that  she  will  live  ;  and  now,  if  you  please, 
we  will  go  to  her ;  but  first  I  have  something  to 
show  you."  He  went  out  and  brought  in  his  little 
daughter,  a  fair-haired,  sweet-looking  child. 

"  We  had  had  no  children  for  many  years,''  said 
he,  "  until  we  came  here,  and  then  God  sent  us 


THE   PURITAN   FAMILY.  151 

this  blessing.  I  call  her  my  '  New  England  To- 
ken.' You  see  how  he  hath  provided  for  us,  and 
thus  will  he  provide  for  you.  The  wife  of  your 
youth  shall  yet  become  the  staff  of  your  age,  and 
together  shall  ye  depart  to  those  heavenly  regions 
where  you  shall  see  Jesus." 

At  this  time,  so  much  confidence  was  placed  in 
Mr.  Wilson,  that  his  prayers  were  deemed  pro- 
phetic. A  trembling  hope  sprang  up  in  Mr.  Al- 
lerton's  heart,  which  agitated,  him.  Mr.  Wilson 
withdrew  to  make  preparations  to  return  with 
him.  Mrs.  Wilson  had  so  strong  faith  in  her  hus- 
band's impressions,  that  she  became  very  cheerful. 
She  talked  with  Mr.  Allerton ;  she  sought  to 
divert  him,  that  the  necessary  delay  might  not 
distress  him.  She  related  much  of  their  own  ex- 
perience. One  little  incident  particularly  had  in- 
terested her,  and  she  told  it  to  strengthen  him. 

She  had  been  very  unwilling  to  come  to  New 
England,  and  had  returned  in  great  dejection  with 
her  husband,  when  he  came  over  a  second  time 
for  her.  After  she  had  been  here  a  little  while,  an 
old  kinsman  of  hers  sent  her  over  by  a  friend, '  a 
present  to  console  her  in  the  American  Depart.' 
"  And  this  is  it,"  said  she,  taking  three  small  rolls 
out  of  a  box.  "  First  he  presented  me  this  Brass 
Counter ;  if  I  made  any  show  of  discontent,  he 


152  THE    PURITAN    FAMILY. 

was  to  take  no  further  notice  of  me.  But  I  was 
so  much  delighted  by  any  remembrance  from  my 
old  kinsman,  that  next  he  gave  me  this  Silver 
Crown.  And  last  of  all,  this  Gold  Jacobus,  and 
with  it,  delivered  this  message :  '  That  such  would 
be  the  dispensations  of  God  unto  me,  and  the  other 
good  people  of  New  England.  If  rtiey  would  be 
content  and  thankful  with  such  little  things  as  God 
at  first  bestowed  upon  them,  they  should  in  time 
have  silver  and  gold  enough.'  This  has  proved 
true,"  said  she,  "  in  a  great  measure ;  for  God  has 
given  us  since,  a  Token  which  is  worth  more  to  us 
than  tried  gold." 

Mr.  Wilson's  sleigh  now  drove  up ;  and  Mr, 
Allerton,  much  more  agitated  than  when  he  came, 
took  leave.  His  mind  seemed  afloat ;  he  had  lost 
his  anchor  ;  he  could  not  rest  on  the  Will  of  God, 
for  what  this  Will  was  to  be,  was  now  uncertain. 
He  eagerly  strained  his  eyes  for  the  first  glimpse 
of  home,  as  if  the  icy  roof  could  picture  to  him 
death  or  life.  It  was  soon  in  sight ;  the  doctor's 
carriage  was  there  again.  He  feared  to  advance ; 
he  could  not  recede  ;  —  is  it  life,  or  death  ?  He 
drew  nearer ;  the  door  opened ;  and  as  Hetty 
came  out  to  break  the  tidings,  his  heart  sank.  A 
little  behind  her  stood  Arabella ;  they  were  now 
in  the  yard ;  Hetty  came  tramping  through  the 


THE  PTTRITAX    FAMILY.  153 

deep  snow  to  meet  him.     Mr.  Allerton  did  not 
raise  his  eyes.     "  All  doing  well,  Miss  Hett j  ?  " 

said  Mr.  Wilson. 

• 

"  All  well,  sir ;  a  great  change,"  replied  Hetty. 
Mr.  Allerton  looked  up ;  there  was  a  peculiar 
smile  on  Hetty's  face  ;  it  was  always  a  good  har- 
binger. He  sprang  past  her,  and  Arabella  re- 
ceived him. 

"  Dear  father,"  said  she,  "  there  is  more  hope  ; 
the  crisis  is  passed. 

"  All  true,"  said  the  good  doctor,  who  stood  at 
the  half-opened  door.  "  Nothing  to  do  now,  but 
build  her  up." 

"  Let  us  go  in  and  return  thanks  to  God,  who 
has,  in  His  infinite  mercy,  restored  her  to  us  from 
the  brink  of  the  grave,"  said  Mr.  Wilson.  Such 
a  prayer  this  family  had  never  before  offered. 
And  in  those  moments  of  overwhelming  gratitude, 
(hey  renewedly  consecrated  themselves  to  God. 

It  was  so.  The  fever  had  attained  its  crisis, 
and  danger  was  almost  overeat 

Mrs.  Allerton  knew  them  all,  and  from  this  hour 
began  slowly  to  recover,  under  the  careful  nursing 
of  Arabella  and  the  untiring  Hetty. 


MERCY    WHITMAN. 

EXPOSURE  to  the  intense  cold  of  this  severe 
winter,  hard  work  and  poor  fare,  made  sad  in- 
roads upon  Hetty.  She  was  attacked  severely 
with  rheumatism ;  it  became  difficult  for  her  to 
move  about ;  and  for  a  time,  she  was  entirely  help- 
less. These  were  such  days  as  Arabella  had 
never  experienced  before.  Her  father  assisted 
her  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability,  and  neighbors  oc- 
casionally offered  their  services ;  still  she  was 
taxed  much  beyond  her  strength.  The  reed  bent 
almost  to  the  breaking.  But  she  had  not  a 
thought  for  herself.  She  went  from  her  mother 
to  Hetty,  and  from  Hetty  back  to  her  mother, 
cheering  first  one  and  then  the  other,  attending  to 
a  little  want  here,  and  providing  a  comfort  there, 
—  never  complaining,  never  desponding,  never 
seeming  weary.  Her  father  looked  upon  her  with 
astonishment,  to  see  how  suddenly  the  frail  child 
had  become  a  woman,  and  how  rapidly  strength 
of  purpose  and  mature  judgment  had  developed 
themselves,  to  a  degree  which  he  had  not  believed 
possible.  He  observed  also  with  inward  joy  how 


THE    PURITAN   FAMILY.  155 

beautifully  her  Christian  graces  were  unfolded  in 
this  time  of  trial ;  particularly,  how  much  life 
there  was  to  tier  faith  in  Jesus;  with  what  child- 
like simplicity  she  trusted  in  Him.  This  it  was 
that  sustained  her,  and  gave  to  her,  through  this 
season  of  toil  and  peril,  a  serenity  which  nothing 
could  disturb.  Older  Christians  looked  on  with 
silent,  self-reproach,  feeling  that  she  had  risen  to  a 
height  far  beyond  them. 

Poor  Hetty  fretted  under  her  affliction ;  it 
grieved  her  so  much  "  to  have  Miss  Bella  taking 
steps  for  her,"  or  to  have  her  doing  any  part  of 
the  kitchen  labor,  that  it  really  increased  her  ill- 
ness. Mr.  Allerton  at  length  removed  his  books 
from  his  little  library,  and  putting  a  bed  in  there, 
removed  Hetty  to  it,  so  that  she  could  have  her 
door  open  into  the  kitchen,  and  direct  about  the 
work.  This  was  some  relief  to  Arabella. 

Among  the  many  things  reckoned  as  mercies  at 
this  time,  was  the  arrival  of  a  black  woman  named 
Ehoda.  She  had  been  a  servant  in  a  family  who 
overcome  by  the  hardships  of  the  season,  had  re- 
turned to  England.  Rhoda,  by  her  own  request 
had  remained  with  a  little  annuity,  large  enough 
to  save  her  from  want ;  and,  about  the  time  that 
Hetty  was  taken  ill,  had  hired  a  room  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Mercy  Whitman's  house. 


156  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

Rhoda  was  a  great  comfort ;  she  used  to  come 
three,  and  sometimes  four,  days  in  the  week.  She 
was  kind  and  honest,  though  simple-minded. 
Hetty  felt  grateful  to  her,  and  treated  her  with 
a  consideration  which  very  soon  won  Rhoda's 
heart. 

Mrs.  Allerton  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  lux- 
ury of  convalescence.  Her  appetite  increased  so 
much,  that  it  became  a  difficult  matter  to  obtain 
the  proper  food  to  satisfy  it.  This  was  a  source 
of  great  trouble  to  her  friends.  Arabella  often 
gave  up  silently  her  customary  dinner  of  eggs  that 
they  might  in  some  way  be  served  for  her  mother, 
—  and  the  unsuitable  food  which  she  was  forced 
to  take  in  its  place,  prepared  the  way,  in  part,  for 
new  affliction. 

Upon  what  little  hooks  the  happiness  of  a  fami- 
ly sometimes  seem  to  hang  !  Here,  one  day,  sim- 
ple, old  black  Rhoda  is  very  busy  at  home  doing 
up  her  washing,  and  she  cannot  come  in  to  help 
them  at  Mr.  Allerton's,  when  they  must  have  some- 
one, —  for  Hetty  is  helpless  in  bed,  —  Mr.  Aller- 
ton is  shut  up  with  a  heavy  cold,  and  Miss  Arabella 
laid  by  for  the  day  with  headache,  —  and  the  conse- 
quences are  fatal.  Mercy  Whitman  must  be  sent 
"ir,  and  Mercy  Whitman  comes. 

u  You  are  to  make  some  broth  of  that  chicken, 


THE   PURITAN    FAMILT.  157 

for  mistress,"  said  Hetty,  issuing  her  orders  mixed 
up  with  sundry  groans,  from  her  bed-room. 

"  I  knew  that  afore,"  said  Mercy.  "  Did  n't' 
Good-man  Allerton  just  tell  me?  Bless  me,  do 
you  take  me  for  an  adder  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  I  do  take  you  for,"  muttered 
Hetty  to  herself,  under  the  sheet. 

Mercy  went  about  her  work,  fussing  around  the 
kitchen,  —  putting  everything  out  of  place,  and 
grumbling  and  scolding. 

Hetty  was  tried  beyond  what  she  was  able  to 
bear,  —  for  there  she  was,  she  could  not  stir  hand 
or  foot,  and  Mercy  "Whitman  was  let  loose  in  her 
kitchen. 

"  Why  do  n't  you  put  your  broth  on  ?  "  said  she ; 
mistress  ought  to  have  had  it  an  hour  ago ;  you 
never  will  get  it  done  at  this  rate." 

"  Well,  why  do  n't  you  keep  your  pots  in  order  ?  " 
retorted  Mercy.  "  I  can 't  find  one  that  is  fit  to 
cook  in;  they  don't  look  as  if  they  had  been 
washed  for  a  year." 

"  Wash  'em  out,  then,"  said  Hetty,  biting  her 
lips  to  cut  short  the  remainder  of  her  sentence,  — 
and  bravely  covering  her  head  with  the  bed-clothes, 
that  she  might  neither  see  nor  hear  her  tormentor. 
By  a  great  effort  she  lay  there  quite  still,  until  she 
thought  it  was  time  for  the  broth  to  be  done.  She 
14 


158  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

waited  then  a  little  longer  —  much  longer,  —  Mer- 
cy was  still  at  work.  Then  she  looked  out. 

"  A'nt  that  broth  done  yet  ?  "  said  she  ;  "  we 
might  have  sent  to  England  for  it  before  this 
time." 

"  I  am  getting  it  done  fast  as  I  can,"  said  Mercy, 
"  and  if  you  want  it  done  quicker,  come  and  make 
it  yourself."  Mercy  was  standing  by  it,  thicken- 
ing it  with  Indian  meal,  and  preparing  to  put  in 
sliced  turnips. 

"  You  great  fool,"  said  Hetty,  as  she  saw  that 
their  last  chicken  was  now  quite  lost ;  "  you  great 
fool,  you  know  that  mistress  can't  touch  it  with 
meal  in  it,  and  I  told  you  so,  and  you  have  spoiled 
it  on  purpose  to  get  it  for  yourself,  —  I  do  believe 
you  are  an  imp  of  Satan — " 

Mercy  dropped  her  plate  —  "  An  imp  of  Satan 
— an  imp  of  Satan ! "  said  she,  quite  slowly — "  may 
the  flesh  rot  from  your  bones  while  the  breath  is 
in  your  body,  for  abusing  a  poor,  lone,  childless 
widow  thus — " 

"  Childless  widow,"  said  Hetty,  whose  anger  now 
passed  all  bounds,  —  "widow,"  and  she  laughed 
sneeringly,  —  "as  much  of  a  widow  as  I  am,  I 
guess,  and  no  more." 

In  an  instant,  as  if  with  one  spring,  Mercy 
Whitman  stood  by  her  bed ;  her  eyes  started  from 


THE   PURITAN  FAMILY.  159 

their  sockets,  her  lips  were  livid,  she  clenched  her 
fists,  she  shook  them  in  Hetty's  face ! 

"  I  '11  have  my  revenge,"  said  she  —  and  before 
Hetty  could  recover  from  her  amazement,  Mercy 
had  gone. 


VII 

HETTY   IN   TROUBLE. 

THE  heavy  falls  of  snow  had  ceased.  Now  and 
then,  a  mild  day  brought  forth  the  exclamation, 
that  "  the  back-bone  of  whiter  was  broken."  March 
came  blustering  in  —  the  first  Spring-month,  and 
it  was  gladly  welcomed  by  our  emigrants.  Mrs. 
Allerton  longed  to  be  able  to  ride  out,  both  for  her 
own  sake  and  that  of  her  drooping  lily.  Both  her- 
self and  Mr.  Allerton  were  anxious  to  see  more 
color  in  Bella's  cheek,  and  they  felt  that  mild 
weather  and  spring  birds  and  flowers  would  be  the 
best  medicine  for  her. 

One  morning  the  family  lingered  longer  than 
usual  at  their  breakfast  table.  It  was  a  delightful 
morning,  —  the  wind  seemed  to  have  exhausted 
itself  the  day  before. 

"  I  think  you  can  venture  to  ride,  to-day,"  said 
Mr.  Allerton  to  his  wife ;  "  by  eleven  o'clock  it 
will  be  quite  warm." 

"  O  yes,  dear  mother ;  it  seems  as  if  summer 
had  come.  The  fresh  air  will  do  you  a  world  of 
good.  We  will  wrap  you  all  up,  and  you  shall  ride 
in,  and  stop  and  rest  at  Gov.  "Winthrop's  ;  can  she 


THE   PURITAX   FAMILY.  161 

not,  father  ?  I  do  n't  know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel 
very  light-headed  to-day,  —  I  should  like  to  sing 
all  the  time.  Winter  is  over,  and  you,  mother 
dear,  fast  becoming  strong,  —  and  good  old  Hetty 
getting  well,  too ;  you  must  make  room  for  her, 
father,  can't  you  ?  A  ride  will  refresh  her  so 
much ! " 

"  AVhere  shall  we  put  you,  Bella,  if  we  take 
her,"  said  her  father,  patting  her  affectionately  on 
the  head. 

"  Me !  0, 1  will  stay  at  home  and  have  dinner 
all  ready  for  you,  by  the  time  you  return." 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  that,  for  Rhoda  is  here 
to  day,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Well,  I  can  ride  under  the  buffalo, — any  way, 
BO  that  Hetty  can  go.  " 

"  If  you  ride  there,  you  will  hardly  see  the  vio- 
lets you  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  pick,"  said  her 
father. 

"  I  can  leave  those  until  we  go  again,"  said  Bel- 
la, laughing ;  "  but  we  will  take  all  our  sick  ones, 
that  we  may  see  them  grow  in  this  fine  air." 

"Truly,  our  cup  runneth  over,"  replied  Mr.  Al- 
lerton ;  "  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  there  was  scarcely 
room  to  hope  that  our  circle  could  remain  unbrok- 
en, —  yet  God  hath  mercifully  spared  us  to  each 
other,  and  carried  us  safely  through  the  trials  of 


162  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

this  bitter  winter.  How  wonderfully  did  lie  help 
us  in  our  distresses !  " 

Tears  came  into  Mrs.  Allerton's  eyes,  —  they 
were  all  the  reply  she  could  make. 

'  To  lead  the  van  'gainst  Babylon,  doth  worthy  Winthrop 

call, 
Thy  Progeny  shall  Battell  try,  when  Prelacy  shall  fall.' — 

This  couplet,  sung  in  a  loud,  monotonous  tone,  h> 
terrupted  the  conversation. 

"  Rhoda  feels  in  as  good  spirits  as  the  rest  of 
us,  to-day,"  said  Arabella.  "  Rhoda,  wont  you 
tell  Hetty  not  to  do  anything  this  morning  to  tire 
her,  for  we  are  going  to  take  her  into  Boston,  after 
prayers." 

Rhoda  opened  the  door.  "  Mistress,  there  be  a 
good  many  gentlemen  coming  up  the  yard." 

u  What  can  that  mean,  at  so  early  an  hour," 
said  Mr.  Allerton,  with  some  astonishment. 

A  large  party  of  men  and  boys,  followed  by 
several  women,  passed  the  window,  and  entered 
the  house.  Mr.  Allerton  immediately  recognized 
Judge  Hathorn,  who  stepping  forward,  saluted 
him,  and  informed  him  that  he,  with  another  ma- 
gistrate, had  been  sent  for  before  daybreak,  to 
visit  a  poor  woman,  named  Mercy  Whitman,  who 
had  fallen  into  very  odd  fits,  of  such  a  nature  that 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  163 

the  spectators  were  forced  to  believe  there  was 
something  supernatural  about  them ;  and  that  she 
called  repeatedly  for  a  woman  named  Hetty,  who, 
it  was  understood,  resided  with  Mr.  Allerton  ;  and 
that  said  Hetty  was  summoned  by  the  magistrate 
to  appear  in  the  presence  of  the  afflicted.  Then, 
boys  and  women,  all  talking  together,  gave  a  con- 
fused and  exaggerated  account  of  Mercy's  suf- 
ferings. 

"  Mrs.  Allerton  is  still  feeble,"  said  Mr.  Aller- 
ton, addressing  the  Judge;  "and  this  noise  and  ex- 
citement will  do  her  much  injury.  If  you  will  dis- 
miss these  good  people,  I  will  confer  with  you  upon 
the  matter." 

Judge  Hathorn  immediately  requested  the  crowd 
to  disperse.  They  began  to  do  so,  but  not  much 
pleased,  cast  ominous  glances  at  poor  .Hetty,  who 
Bunk,  pale  and  trembling,  into  a  chair. 

"  Hang  her  for  an  old  witch,  said  one.  "  Hang- 
ing is  too  good  for  her,"  said  another.  "  The  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  her  soul,"  said  a  third.  "  She 
will  cast  an  evil  eye  on  us,"  said  a  fourth. 

Mr.  Allerton  closed  the  sitting-room  door.  "Judge 
Hathorn,"  said  he,  "  this  is  an  awful  accusation ;  and 
I  beseech  you  as  you  would  not  have  the  guilt 
of  shedding  innocent  blood  upon  your  soul  in 
the  day  of  reckoning,  that  you  stop  and  con- 
sider. This  woman  has  been  in  my  family  for 


164         THE  PURITAN  FAMILY. 

many  years  ;  I  could  answer  for  her  as  I  could  for 
my  own  soul,  that  she  knows  nothing  of  witch- 
craft, and  has  had  no  dealings  with  witches.  She 
is  a  faithful,  honest,  kind-hearted  woman ;  she 
would  not  willingly  harm  a  fly.  This  Mercy 
Whitman,  who  brings  this  horrible  charge,  I  have 
seen  often,  but  I  have  never  yet  seen  any  good  in 
her.  She  is  in  every  respect  ugly,  and  has  quar- 
relled with  Hetty,  and  threatened  to  have  her  re- 
venge. Now,  Judge,  under  such  circumstances, 
who  do  you  think  must  he  the  innocent  person  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  Judge  ;  "  but  it 
devolves  upon  me  to  discover  these  abominable 
witchcrafts  which  are  committed  in  this  country, 
that  we  may  be  rid  of  them  ;  and  the  woman,  Het- 
ty, must  be  brought  before  the  afflicted,  that  we 
may  investigate  the  case." 

"  She  is  too  ill,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton,  "  she  is  too 
ill.  She  has  not  stepped  out  of  the  house  for 
weeks.  It  will  be  the  death  of  her  to  walk  over 
there." 

"  The  distance  is  short,  and  we  have  no  time  to 
wait,"  said  Judge  Hathorn.  "  Woman,  are  you 
ready?" 

"  Ready  ! "  said  Hetty,  bursting  forth  in  a  vio- 
lent tone.  "  Ready  !  I  never  will  put  my  foot 
within  her  doors,  while  the  breath  is  in  my  body. 
Get  me  there  if  you  can.  I  a  witch  truly  !  If 


THE   PtTKITAN    FAMILY.  165 

Mercy  Whitman  is  not  bound  over  to  the  Devil, 
herself,  then  she  ought  to  be,  —  that's  my  mind." 

The  magistrates  exchanged  a  few  words,  and, 
approaching  Hetty,  signified  their  intention  to  take 
her  by  force. 

"  Hetty,  dear  —  dear  Hetty,"  said  Bella,  "  pray 
do  not  resist  You  must  go  ;  and  now  if  you  love 
me,  go  quietly.  I  will  walk  by  you ;  I  will  hold 
your  hand.  Here,  wrap  this  around  you.  Jsow 
we  are  ready,  sir,"  said  she.  "  Mother,  do  not  be 
anxious ;  we  shall  soon  return,  and  all  will  be  well 
again." 

It  was  but  a  few  steps  to  Mercy  Whitman's, 
and  the  throng  about  the  house  made  way  for 
Judge  Hathorn,  who  passing  through  them  with 
one  hand  upon  Hetty's  shoulder,  entered  the  hut, 
and  Hetty  and  Mercy  stood  face  to  face.  Instant- 
ly, Mercy  fell  down  upon  the  floor,  strongly  con- 
vulsed ;  her  head  bent  back  until  it  touched  her 
feet ;  her  body  writhed  like  an  agonized  worm ; 
her  tongue  was  drawn  out  to  an  immense  length, 
and  so  swollen,  that  it  seemed  impossible  that  it 
should  ever  find  its  way  back  ;  her  eyes  sunk  so 
far  into  her  head,  that  they  seemed  to  disappear. 
If  Hetty  raised  her  eyes,  Mercy  would  be  drawn 
up  to  the  ceiling ;  if  she  moved  either  arm,  Mer- 
cy complained  of  pinches,  and  large  black  and 
blue  marks  were  visible. 


166  THE    PUKITAN   FAMILY. 

"  Come  up  and  place  your  hand  upon  this  wo 
man,"  said  Judge  Hathorn.  Mercy  attempted  to 
comply,  but  was  thrown  violently  down  upon  the 
floor,  knocking  her  head  in  a  most  cruel  manner, 
and  then  she  could  not  rise. 

Judge  Hathorn  then  held  Hetty's  hand,  that  she 
might  no  more  afflict,  and  commanded  her  to  fix 
her  eyes  upon  him.  He  then  requested  Mercy 
Whitman  to  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer,  which  she 
was  unable  to  do,  being  struck  dumb.  He  then 
lifted  Hetty  up,  notwithstanding  her  struggles,  and 
forcibly  placed  her  hand  upon  Mercy,  who  imme- 
diately recovered  the  power  of  speech,  came  out 
of  her  fit,  and  was  pronounced  well. 

"To  prison  with  her!  To  prison  with  her! 
Hang  her !  Hang  the  witch !  "  shouted  the  mob. 

"  She  must  be  committed  for  safe  custody  until 
farther  trial,"  said  the  Judge. 

"  Leave  her  with  me ;  I  will  answer  for  it  that 
she  appear,"  said  Mr.  Allerton. 

The  Judge  hesitated.  Mercy,  who  had  until 
this  moment,  from  the  time  Hetty  touched  her, 
been  calm,  instantly  relapsed  into  violent  convul- 
eions.  One  or  two  of  the  bystanders  began  to 
groan  and  fall  down,  declaring  that  they  also  were 
afflicted.  "  To  prison  with  her !  To  prison  with 
her !  "  shouted  the  multitude.  "  Chain  her,  or  the 
Devil  will  be  on  us  all,"  said  a  gruif  voice. 


THE   PURITAN   FAMILY.  167 

One  of  the  magistrates  put  heavy  irons  of  eight 
pounds  weight  upon  her  ankles,  and  the  tumult 
was  somewhat  appeased. 

"  We  must  take  her  to  Boston  prison  without 
delay,"  said  Judge  Hathorn. 

Arabella  disappeared,  ran  hastily  home,  pro- 
cured  cloaks  and  hoods  for  herself  and  Hetty, 
and  told  her  mother  that  she  intended  to  go  into 
Boston,  and  if  need  be,  spend  the  night  with  Het- 
ty. It  was,  however,  with  much  difficulty  that  she 
obtained  permission  to  accompany  the  prisoner. 
Placed  in  a  wagon,  ironed  like  a  criminal,  taking 
notice  of  no  one,  not  even  of  the  compassionate 
girl  by  her  side,  still  and  pale,  as  if  suddenly  strick- 
en by  death,  the  unfortunate  Hetty  passed  her 
home,  and  was  soon  lodged  within  the  damp  and 
gloomy  walls. 

The  lamb-like  gentleness  of  the  sunny  morning 
disappeared,  and  the  sky,  as  if  sympathizing  with 
our  afflicted  family,  became  overcast,  and  the  blus- 
tering winds  were  again  let  loose.  They  pierced 
through  the  cracks  of  Hetty's  gloomy  chamber, 
and  were  merciless  to  her  aching  bones  as  man 
had  been.  There  was  no  bed,  and  there  were  no 
comforts  about  her.  Arabella  sat  down  by  her, 
and  begged  her  in  this  distress  to  call  upon  God, 
who  was  able  to  bring  her  safely  through.  She 
also  knelt  by  her,  and  pleaded  so  earnestly  in  her 


168  THE    PURITAN   FAMILY. 

behalf,  that  Hetty  was  touched,  and  tears  came 
to  her  relief.  She  wept  like  an  infant,  and  Ara- 
bella rejoiced  much  to  see  her  come  out  from  her 
stupor. 

The  jailer,  -who  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  came 
in  at  this  moment,  bringing  a  feather-bed,  warm 
woollen  blankets,  and  wood  to  build  a  fire. 

"  Se  ">,,  Hetty  —  look,  Hetty,  God  already  an- 
swers our  prayer,"  said  Arabella,  "and  He  has 
sent  you  these  as  a  token  of  His  wonderful  love." 

"That  is  right,  my  daughter,"  said  the  well- 
known  voice  of  Mr.  Wilson,  who  was  following 
the  jailer,  "  and  shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand 
of  the  Lord,  and  shall  we  not  receive  evil  ?  Let 
us  trust  Hun  at  all  times,  and  all  will  yet  be  well. 
But  this  is  too  damp  a  place  for  you,  my  child. 
Your  father  is  waiting  to  take  you  home.  Your 
mother  is  much  troubled  for  you  ;  you  must  return 
to  her.  I  will  take  charge  of  Hetty ;  she  shall 
not  want  for  anything  that  I  can  provide.  Go 
now,  they  will  not  allow  your  father  to  come  in." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Bella,  go  back,  go  back,"  said  Het- 
ty, "  to  your  mother.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  there  to- 
morrow. Do  n't  come  here  any  more  into  this 
lamp  hole,  with  that  cough  of  yours." 

Indeed  it  was  too  damp  there.  The  cold  ride 
home  also,  exhausted  as  Arabella  was  by  the  ex- 
citement of  the  day,  did  "  that  cough  "  no  good. 


THE   PURITAN   FAMILY.  169 

Mr.  Allerton  had  enlisted  the  ministers  on  his 
side,  and  urged  an  early  trial.  It  was  appointed 
for  the  next  day ;  so  that  they  with  much  reason 
hoped  Hetty's  confinement  would  be  short.  In 
addition  to  this,  he  visited  Mercy,  he  talked  long 
and  kindly  to  her,  he  privately  offered  her  large 
bribes ;  but  revenge  was  sweeter  to  her  than  gold. 


VIII. 

CLOVEN   FEET. 

HETTY'S  case  excited  great  interest.  On  the 
morning  of  the  trial,  the  ministers  from  Cambridge, 
Salem,  and  Dorchester  Avere  requested  to  meet  for 
prayer  both  for  the  afflicted  and  the  accused.  Af- 
ter this,  the  magistrates  assembled,  and  Mercy 
Whitman  was  early  at  her  post. 

Hetty  made  her  appearance,  still  heavily  ironed, 
her  face  quite  pale,  and  her  dress  much  disorder- 
ed. As  soon  as  she  entered,  Mercy  and  one  or 
two  young  girls  fell  down  in  a  fit.  Two  old  In- 
dians in  the  crowd,  also  began  to  wallow  about  the 
floor  like  swine.  The  examination  commenced. 
A  part  of  it  was  as  follows :  — 

Mag.  "  You,  Mehitable  Hubbard,  are  brought 
before  authority  upon  high  suspicion  of  witchcraft. 
Now,  tell  us  the  truth  of  this  matter." 

Hetty.  "  I  am  no  more  of  a  witch  than  you  are, 
—  and  if  you  say  so,  you  lie." 

At  this,  Mercy  appeared  to  be  in  great  torments. 
She  shrieked  violently,  and  declared  that  spectres 
were  tormenting  her.  "  Where  are  they  ?  "  asked 
the  magistrate.  "  There,"  said  Mercy,  pointing  to 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  171 

a  table  just  before  Hetty.  Upon  this,  Judge  Ha- 
thorn  struck  the  table  so  violently  as  to  snap  his 
cane  in  two.  A  smile  of  derision  passed  over  the 
prisoner's  face.  Mr.  Wilson  went  up  to  her,  and 
whispered  a  moment  very  earnestly  in  her  ear. 
After  this,  her  answers  were  much  more  civil. 
Mercy  declaring  herself  relieved  by  the  blow,  the 
examination  proceeded. 

Mag.  "  Pray  what  ails  this  woman,  called  Mer- 
cy Whitman?" 

Hetty.  "  The  devil  knows,  I  do  n't,"  muttered 
Hetty  in  an  under  tone. 

Mag.     "  We  desire  you  to  speak  louder." 

Hetty.  "  She  can  tell  that  better  than  I  can.  I 
know  nothing  about  it." 

Mag.     "  Do  you  think  she  is  bewitched  ?  " 

Hetty.     No." 

Mag.     "  What  are  your  thoughts  about  her  ?  " 

Hetty.  "  My  thoughts  are  my  own  while  they 
are  in  ;  when  they  come  out,  you  may  have  them." 

Mag.     "  Who  do  you  think  is  her  master  ?  " 

Hetty.  a  If  you  knew  her  as  well  as  I,  you 
would  n't  ask." 

Mag.  [to  Mercy.]  "  Mercy  Whitman,  hath  this 
woman  hurt  you  ?"  Mercy  rolled  up  her  sleeves, 
and  showed  deep  scars,  as  if  of  fire.  "  It  is  she 
who  did  this." 

Mag.     "Whom   else   hath  she  hurt?"     Two 


172  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

girls  instantly  fell  in  a  fit,  crying,  "  She  hurts  us ; 
she  hurts  us." 

Mag.  "  Why  do  you  hurt  them  ?  Tell  me  the 
truth." 

Hetty.  "  As  true  as  there  is  a  God,  I  do  not 
hurt  them." 

At  the  name  of  God,  the  afflicted  lay  like  one 
dead. 

Mag.  "  Well,  what  have  you  done  towards  this  ?  " 

Hetty.     "  Nothing  at  all." 

Mag.     "  Why,  it  is  you,  or  your  appearance." 

Hetty.  "  It  is  neither.  I  am  as  innocent  of  this 
as  the  child  unborn." 

Mag.  "  Is  it  not  your  master  ?  How  comes 
your  appearance  to  hurt  them  ?" 

Hetty.     "  I  call  no  one  master,  but  God." 

Mag.  "  Bring  forth  the  afflicted  to  touch  her." 
Mercy  and  the  girls  approach  a  few  steps  and  fall 
down  again,  violently  convulsed.  The  old  Indians 
roll  and  tumble  in  a  contrary  direction.  One  of 
Hetty's  hands  are  let  go,  and  several  others  are 
afflicted  ;  she  holds  her  head  on  one  side,  —  all  the 
afflicted  have  theirs  drawn  one  side  in  imitation 
of  her. 

Mag.  "  How  doth  this  agree  with  what  you 
have  said  ?  " 

Hetty.  "It  is  she  who  bears  me  malice  that 
does  this ;  I  am  innocent." 


THE    PUR1TAX   FAMILY.  173 

The  court  were  alarmed ;  and  judging  that  they 
must  investigate  the  matter  more  closely  adjourned 
to  the  25th.  Hetty  was  sent  back  to  her  dungeon, 
and  was  soon  followed  by  one  of  the  magistrates. 
He  urged  her  vehemently  to  confess  that  she  was 
a  witch.  He  told  her  the  devil  was  then  before 
her  eyes,  and  he  would  attempt  to  beat  him  away 
with  his  hand.  Hetty  declared  she  was  no  witch, 
and  bade  him  leave  her  dungeon ;  and  wished  to 
know  if  she  was  kept  there  to  be  insulted  ? 

"  No,  no ! "  said  the  magistrate,  who  had  not  yet 
passed  the  period  of  youth ;  "  but  for  the  sake  of 
your  friend,  who  loves  you,  Goodman  Allerton'a 
daughter,  I  would  have  you  confess,  for  if  you  do 
not,  you  will  be  hanged." 

«Ah!  that  is  it,  is  it?"  said  Hetty,  —  casting 
at  the  man  so  keen  a  look,  that  he  evidently  winced 
under  it.  "  Let  me  tell  you,  that  neither  my  mas- 
ter, nor  my  mistress,  nor  Miss  Arabella  would 
ever  receive  me  again,  if  I  confess  to  a  lie.  I  will 
not  confess,  though  I  hang  for  it ;  and  if  I  do,  on 
your  soul  lie  the  murder.  I  have  never  covenanted 
with  the  devil,  neither  do  I  know  anything  of  his 
temptations,  excepting  what  I  see  in  other  folks' 
actions." 

It  was  all  in  vain ;  and  Hetty  was  ordered  to 
be  kept  in  close  confinement  until  more  evidence, 
or  a  confession  from  her,  could  be  obtained. 
15* 


rx. 

A   HINT. 

IN  the  mean  time  every  exertion  to  save  her 
was  made,  that  could  be  made.  Gov.  "Winthrop 
himself,  from  the  interest  he  felt  in  Mr.  Allerton's 
family,  used  his  influence  in  her  behalf;  Deane 
Winthrop  gave  himself  up  to  the  matter  entirely, 
and  was  passing  between  Mr.  Allerton's  and  the 
place  of  Hetty's  confinement  many  times  a  day,  — 
giving  comfort  at  each  end  of  his  journey. 

By  request,  all  the  ministers  in  the  vicinity 
were  again  convened  at  Boston,  and  consulted. 
After  much  deliberation  and  prayer,  they  expressed 
their  minds  thus :  — 

"  They  were  affected  by  the  deplorable  state  of 
the  afflicted ;  they  were  thankful  for  the  diligent 
care  of  the  rulers  to  detect  the  abominable  witch- 
crafts which  were  being  committed  in  the  country, 
and  prayed  for  a  perfect  discovery  thereof,  —  but 
advised  to  a  cautious  proceeding,  lest  evils  might 
ensue ;  and  that  tenderness  be  used  towards  the 
accused  relating  to  matters  presumptive  and 
convictive,  and  also,  to  privacy  hi  examinations. 


THE   PUKITAN   FAMILY.  175 

*  Nevertheless  (the  sum  of  the  matter),  they 
humbly  recommend  to  the  government,  the  speedy 
and  vigorous  prosecution  of  such  as  have  rendered 
themselves  obnoxious,  —  according  to  the  direction 
given  in  the  laws  of  God,  and  the  wholesome 
statutes  of  the  English  nation  for  the  detection  of 
witchcraft." 

From  a  trial  which  was  going  on  at  Salem  it 
was  evident,  after  this  recommendation  from  the 
clergy,  how  matters  would  be  managed  in  Boston. 
All  spectral  evidence,  and  all  malicious  stories 
were  there  received,  —  and  it  was  easy  enough  to 
see  that  they  would  be,  in  Hetty's  case,  notwith- 
standing the  exertions  of  powerful  friends.  Mer- 
cy Whitman, —  who  apart  from  the  pleasure  of 
gratifying  her  revenge,  enjoyed  her  present  no- 
toriety, —  did  her  best  to  spread  the  mania,  that 
there  might  be  a  large  party  of  tormented  ones  to 
cry  out  against  Hetty  on  the  day  of  her  second 
trial ;  and  she  was  very  successful.  It  was  won- 
derful how  many  were  tormented  by  day  and  night, 
with  Hetty's  '  appearance '  urging  them  to  sign  the 
black  book,  and  often  dragging  them  about  by  the 
hair  of  their  heads  if  they  refused. 

Hetty's  prospects  became  darker  and  still  dark- 
er ;  even  the  sanguine  Deane  began  to  tremble. 

Mr.  Allerton  and  his  family  appointed  a  day  of 


176  THE    PURITAN   FAMILY. 

private  fasting  and  prayer  in  Hetty's  behalf,  and 
requested  Mr.  Wilson  to  visit  them.  R*  did  so. 

"How  fares  it  with  you,  my  dear  friend?" 
said  he. 

"  Blessed  be  God,"  replied  Mr.  Allerton,  "  we 
enjoy  peace  with  Him,  though  we  are  in  abundance 
of  affliction." 

"  It  is  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Allerton.  "  He  hath 
delivered  us  out  of  many  troubles ;  even  whe*i  all 
His  billows  went  over  us,  still,  His  arm  upheld  us. 
We  are  distressed,  but  not  in  despair.  We  feel 
that  God  can  turn  even  this  mischievous  wicked- 
ness to  his  own  glory." 

A  response  of  heartfelt  trust  in  God,  seemed  to 
be  the  expression  on  Arabella's  countenance.  It 
was  hope  smiling  through  her  tears,  like  the  sun 
shining  from  behind  a  vapory  cloud.  After  more 
religious  conversation,  which  greatly  comforted 
them,  Mr.  Wilson  united  with  them  in  a  prayer 
which  was  earnest  and  affecting.  It  closed  thus :  — 

"  Lord,  wilt  thou  take  away  the  affectionate  ser- 
vant of  these  Thy  children,  who  love  Thee  so 
much,  and  serve  Thee  so  faithfully  ?  whom  Thou 
hast  already  much  chastened,  until  Thou  hast 
brought  them  to  love  Thee  more  than  all  things 
else  ?  Do  it  not,  0  Lord,  but  deliver  her  from  the 
power  of  the  devil,  and  from  the  hands  of  unjust 


THE   PURITAN   TAMIL T.  177 

men  who  would  shed  her  innocent  blood,  —  and  to 
Thy  name  shall  be  all  the  glory." 

After  prayer,  he  walked  the  room  a  few  mo- 
ments, lost  in  thought  "  I  trust  she  shall  yet  be 
saved,"  said  he  ;  "  but  no  trial  will  save  her.  Will 
she  confess  ?  " 

"  Confess,"  said  young  Winthrop,  who  entered 
at  this  moment ;  "  not  if  they  roast  her  alive.  She 
is  firm  as  a  rock.  '  She  will  never  belie  her  own 
eoul,'  she  says." 

"  How  is  she  to-day  ?  "  eagerly  asked  Arabella. 

"  Well,  in  body ;  the  flannel  I  took  over  to  her 
yesterday,  makes  her  very  comfortable,  and  she 
seems  more  composed  in  mind.  The  day  of  her 
trial  is  near,  and  she  has  not  a  doubt  but  that  she 
shall  be  cleared.  She  talks  little,  and  sits  and 
counts  the  hours  which  are  to  bring  her  release." 

«  She  must  not  stand  that  trial,"  said  Mr.  Wil- 
son, pausing  in  his  walk  and  fixing  his  eyes  intent- 
ly on  young  Winthrop.  "  She  must  not  stand  that 
trial,  and  she  must  be  saved !  "  He  drew  on  his 
over-coat.  No  one  spoke.  He  bade  the  family 
good-day,  —  and  as  he  passed  out,  touched  Deane's 
shoulder,  —  "  The  twenty-fifth  is  near  ;  call  on 
me  if  you  need  help." 

The  idea  ran  through  every  mind  like  an  elec- 
tric shock.  There  was  now  but  one  chance  for  poor 


178  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

Hetty,  to  save  her  from  a  disgraceful  death  —  es- 
cape !  escape !  But  how  and  whither  ? 

For  the  next  few  days,  Arabella,  though  very 
far  from  being  well,  rode  into  Boston  every  morn- 
ing, in  rain  or  sunshine,  and  was  much  alone  with 
Deane  Winthrop.  If  others  knew  the  subject  of 
their  consultations,  no  questions  were  asked.  Poo/ 
Hetty !  if  something  could  not  soon  be  done  for  her, 
she  would  cease  to  trouble  any  one.  She  had  be- 
come so  poor  and  haggard  in  her  dungeon,  as  to  be 
frightfully  altered.  Mrs.  Allerton  had  not  seen 
her.  Indeed,  the  physician  would  not  allow  her 
to  do  so,  as  she  was  yet  feeble. 

Days  of  trial  and  darkness  these,  truly  ;  and 
yet  our  pilgrims  had  sources  of  consolation,  which 
"  the  world  could  not  take  away." 


X. 


THE    ESCAPE. 

As  we  have  before  mentioned,  Hetty's  jailer 
was  a  kind,  considerate  man.  lie  allowed  her 
every  comfort  which  he  was  able  to  provide,  and 
admitted  her  friends  freely  to  see  her,  provided 
only  one  or  two  wished  to  go  in  at  a  time.  The 
ministers,  in  particular,  had  free  access,  that  they 
might  attend  to  her  spiritual  wants,  and  if  possible, 
pray  her  out  from  the  powers  of  the  Evil-One. 
Good  old  black  Rhoda  also  came  regularly,  each 
morning,  with  food  for  Hetty,  which  Arabella  her- 
self prepared.  This  was  permitted  on  account  of 
the  prisoner's  illness. 

One  Monday  preceding  the  twenty-fifth,  all  the 
family,  excepting  Mrs.  Allerton,  were  in  Boston, 
spending  the  day  at  Gov.  Winthrop's.  There  was 
coming  and  going,  and  much  quiet  bustle ;  and 
there  were  whispered  consultations  and  anxious 
faces.  Arabella  and  Deane  were  much  together. 
Before  daybreak,  and  while  the  streets  of  Boston 
were  yet  silent,  Deane  had  stolen  down  to  the 
wharf,  where  a  ship,  ready  to  sail  for  England,  lay. 
He  had  a  short  consultation  with  the  Captain, 


180  THE   PUEITAN   FAMILY. 

handed  him  a  note  with  the  Governor's  signature, 
and  gave  him  gold.  The  matter,  whatever  it  was, 
seemed  arranged  to  his  satisfaction,  for  he  met 
Arabella  with  a  glance  of  intelligent  pleasure. 

Very  quietly,  a  large  box  was  packed  at  Gov. 
Winthrop's  that  day,  and  several  full  letters 
placed  in  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  often  sent  to 
their  friends  in  England ;  and  towards  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  he  was  seen  at  the  wharf  entrust- 
ing the  box  to  the  care  of  the  Captain,  —  who  re- 
ceived it  as  if  he  understood  matters. 

The  tea  hour  came  ;  neither  Arabella  nor  Deane 
were  present.  Mr.  Allerton  looked  troubled,  and 
Mrs.  Winthrop  went  out  and  begged  Arabella  to 
come  in  and  take  some  nourishment,  for  she 
would  need  it  before  the  evening  was  past.  She 
did  as  she  was  desired. 

After  tea,  Gov.  Winthrop  prayed  fervently  that 
God  would  appear  for  the  safe  deliverance  of  all 
who  were  unjustly  held  in  bondage ;  his  hearers 
were  comforted  and  strengthened. 

The  sun  set  in  clouds,  and  darkness  came  sud- 
denly on.  The  party  began  to  decrease  in  num- 
bers ;  soon  neither  Arabella,  nor  Deane,  nor  Rho- 
da  were  to  be  seen. 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  outer  prison  gate. 

u  Who's  there  ?  "  asked  the  jailer. 

"Only  I,  good  Mr.    Littlejohn,  with    Rhoda, 


T1IE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  181 

and  some  medicines  for  Hetty.     You  will  let  us 
in?" 

"  I  do  n't  know  about  that,  Miss  Allerton,  it  is 
long  after  sundown." 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,  good  sir,  only  a  few  min- 
utes, for  we  are  in  great  haste." 

"  You  always  get  your  own  way,  Miss  Bella.  I 
can  't  keep  locked  when  you  want  keys.  You  '11 
make  me  lose  my  place,  one  of  these  days.  Not 
but  a  minute  now,  you  hear.  If  anybody  should 
find  me  open  at  this  time  of  night,  'twould  be  as 
much  as  my  life  is  worth." 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,  good  Mr.  Littlejohn  ;  and 
while  I  think  of  it,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
give  this  warm  shawl  to  your  wife,  as  a  present 
from  me,  for  she  has  been  very  kind  to  Hetty." 

"  Bless  your  heart,  what  a  beauty,  —  why,  it  will 
be  the  making  on  her.  I'll  take  it,  and  thank 
you  too ;  it 's  many  a  day  since  she  has  had  a 
shawl  to  keep  her  old  bones  warm.  Hetty,  Het- 
ty, wake  up,  here  is  something  coming  to  cheer 
you,  —  a  whole  basket  full.  Now,  Miss  Bella,  I  '11 
just  run  in  to  show  my  old  woman  the  shawl,  and 
be  back  directly  ;  you  will  be  ready." 

"  0  yes,  Mr.  Littlejohn ;  and  while  you  are  about 
it,  ask  her  if  she  would  choose  any  other  color ;  if 
so,  I  will  change  it  for  her." 

«  Bless  your  kind  heart,  I  '11  tell  her." 
16 


182  THE    PUUITAN    FAMILY. 

The  key  turned  in  the  door. 

"  Now,  Hetty,"  said  Arabella,  calmly  but  quick 
ly,  "  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.     You  must 
black  your  face,  and  change  dresses  with  Rhoda, 
and  go  out  with  me." 

"  Not  I,  Miss  Bella ;  I  '11  not  sneak  out  in  that 
way.  Them  what  put  me  in,  may  come  and  take 
me  out." 

"  They  never  will  take  you  out  but  twice  more 
Hetty,  —  once  to  a  cruel  trial,  and  once  to  the  gal- 
lows." 

"  I  was  just  thinking  as  much,"  said  Hetty, 
"  afore  you  came  in,  and  had  pretty  much  made 
up  my  mind  to  it.  I've  got  to  die  sometime  or 
other ;  and  I  do  n't  know  as  it  makes  much  differ- 
ence whether  it  is  this  year  or  next ;"  and  she  sat 
down  on  her  bed. 

"  You  will  die  neither,  dear  Hetty ;  we  cannot 
spare  you.  You  must  live  for  my  mother's  sake. 
A  vessel  waits  for  you ;  you  go  to  England  for  a 
few  months,  and  then  you  can  come  back  again 
safely.  Hark !  I  hear  him !  For  God's  sake, 
Hetty,  do  not  delay  ;  you  will  break  my  heart." 

"But  will  not  she  hang ?"  asked  the  relenting 
Hetty,  pointing  to  Rhoda.> 

"  No,  she  is  perfectly  safe." 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  said  Rhoda,  laughing  till  she 
Bhook  her  sides.  "  I  should  .like  to  see  'em  hang 


THE    PURITAN   FAMILY.  183 

n  *  'or  a  witch.  Come,  now,  we'll  hide  your  white 
skin,  —  hold  still." 

It  seemed  as  if  it  were  but  a  minute,  and  Het- 
ty's face  was  so  transformed,  that  Arabella  start- 
ed, as  Hetty  turned  it  full  upon  her. 

"  Capital !  capital !  "  said  she,  "  now  off  with 
the  dresses."  Life  was  dear,  after  all,  and  liberty 
sweet.  Hetty  worked  now  with  willing  fingers. 
Dress  and  shawl,  and  hood,  and  heavy  shoes,  were 
already  on,  when  Mr.  Littlejohn's  step  was  heard. 

"  Take  the  basket,  say  nothing,  and  follow  me," 
whispered  Arabella. 

As  the  rusty  old  lock  turned,  Rhoda  blew  out 
the  light 

"  All  ready,  Mr.  Littlejohn,"  said  Arabella,  step- 
ping quickly  forward.  "  How  was  good-wife  Lit- 
tlejohn pleased?  I  hope  she  liked  the  shawl. 
Good  night,  dear  Hetty.  You  will  sleep  very 
sweetly  on  that  medicine,  and  Mr.  Littlejohn  will 
let  in  no  more  visitors  to  disturb  you  till  morning." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Mr.  Littlejohn,  "  I  disobey  orders 
now." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Littlejohn ;  get  your- 
self a  good  package  of  tobacco  before  I  come 
again  ;"  and  she  slipped  a  silver  half-dollar  into 
his  hand. 

He  was  so  full  of  his  thanks,  that  he  took  no 


184  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

particular  notice  of  Rboda,  though  he  affirmed  the 
next  day,  that  it  did  occur  to  him  "  that  the  blackee 
went  out  taller  than  she  came  in." 

And  now  the  prisoner  was  outside  the  prison 
walls,  and  heard  the  last  bolt  drawn  behind  her, 
and  stood  once  more  under  the  cloudy  heavens  — 
free.  She  paused,  as  if  she  wished  to  collect  her 
thoughts. 

"  Follow  me,  Hetty ;  not  a  moment  to  lose,  — 
just  round  the  corner." 

They  stepped  quickly  on,  —  they  two  alone  in 
the  deserted  streets,  —  they  turned  the  corner. 
Deane  met  them.  Arabella  pressed  his  hand,— 
"All  right.  Now,  Hetty,  get  upon  this  horse. 
Mr.  Deane  will  see  you  safe  on  board  ship.  Keep 
close  in  your  berth  to-night,  and  to-morrow  ask 
for  your  box  ;  everything  is  there." 

Hetty  turned  abruptly  round,  and  began  to 
walk  off  rapidly  in  an  opposite  direction.  Win- 
throp  sprang  after  her  and  caught  her. 

u  Are  you  crazy  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,  Mr.  Deane,"  replied  Hetty,  "  but  I'll  nev- 
er desert  my  post;  if  I  must  die,  I'll  die  there. 
I  am  not  going  over  the  ocean  to  leave  them  alone 
in  this  '  Desart.'" 

"  Hetty,"  said  Arabella,  in  a  tone  of  command, 
"you  must  go.  Quick  —  quick  —  there  is  not  a 


THE   PURITAN   FAMILY.  185 

moment  to  lose ;  they  wait  for  you  only  till  nine, 
and  it  wants  but  three  minutes  of  that,  —  get  on, 
—  get  on." 

Hetty  pressed  her  young  mistress  convulsively 
to  her,  —  Deane  almost  lifted  her  upon  the  pillion, 
and  then  sprang  into  the  saddle  before  her ;  and 
putting  the  horse  to  the  top  of  his  speed,  was  soon 
out  of  sight.  They  were  just  in  time.  She  was 
hurried  on  board,  and  before  the  sun  rose,  she 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  Mercy  Whitman,  and  — 
the  Devil. 

Late  and  dark  as  it  was,  Arabella  found  her 
way  back  to  Gov.  Winthrop's,  without  molestation. 
She  entered  their  sitting-room,  and  joined  the 
group  of  anxious  friends,  with  a  smiling  counte- 
nance, though  she  was  very  pale. 

"  My  dear  daughter,"  said  her  father,  "  where  is 
your  shawl.  Surely  you  have  not  been  out  this 
cold  night,  without  a  shawl  ?  " 

Arabella  related  how  she  had  parted  with  it,  — 
che  did  not  think  she  should  miss  it,  but  indeed 
she  was  chilled  through. 

It  was  not  long  before  Deane  joined  the  party, 
with  his  good  tidings,  and  then  immediately  Mr. 
Allerton  prepared  to  return  home,  and  Arabella 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  remain.  The  long,  cold 
ride,  she  had  occasion  to  remember. 
16* 


XI. 

LIFE    IN    DEATH. 

IT  was  later  than  usual  the  next  morning,  be- 
fore Mr.  Littlejohn  discovered  the  trick  which  had 
been  played  upon  him.  At  first,  he  was  very  an- 
gry with  Rhoda,  but  she  soon  soothed  him,  by  as- 
suring him  that  no  one  could  blame  him  ;  and  that 
she  was  sure  he  ought  to  rejoice  that  such  a  good 
old  creature  as  Hetty  had  escaped  hanging  for 
nothing.  If  he  did  not  rejoice  for  her  ^ake,  he 
certainly  should  for  Miss  Arabella ;  for,  if  they 
had  hung  Hetty,  it  would  have  killed  her  out- 
right. 

Not  very  much  noise  was  made  about  the  affair, 
—  and  this  led  some  of  the  people  who  pretended 
to  know  more  than  their  neighbors,  to  remark, 
that  the  governor  might  tell  more  than  he  did,  if 
he  chose.  Mr.  Littlejohn,  perceiving  that  he  was 
not  to  be  brought  up,  was,  in  his  heart,  right  glad 
of  the  escape. 

Mercy  Whitman  was  more  disturbed  than  any 
one  else.  She  was  at  first  inclined  to  wreak  her 
vengeance  on  Rhoda ;  but  finding  she  could  not 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  187 

excite  any  one  to  assist  her  in  this,  she  did  not 
prosecute  it  long.  Rhoda  was  suffered  to  return 
quietly  to  Mr.  Allerton's  family,  where  she  now 
took  up  her  abode.  Mercy,  having  offended  a 
passionate  man  who  lived  near  her,  became  fright- 
ened at  his  threats,  and  this,  with  some  secret 
reasons,  led  her  to  move  away  one  night,  and  go 
no  one  knew  and  no  one  cared  whither. 

April,  with  its  smiles  and  tears,  its  snow-drops 
and  showers,  found  Mr.  Allerton's  family  more 
quiet  than  they  had  been  for  many  months.  Mrs, 
Allerton  gained  rapidly,  and  became  even  stronger 
than  before  her  illness.  Mr.  Allerton  prospered 
in  his  worldly  affairs.  The  spring  opened  favora- 
bly for  his  farm,  and  he  received  a  timely  legacy 
from  one  of  his  distant  relatives  in  England. 
Several  day-laborers  offered  their  services  for  the 
season,  and  Rhoda  did  her  best  to  supply  Hetty's 
place  in  the  kitchen.  It  seemed,  for  a  time,  as  if 
their  troubles  had  passed  with  wintry  storms. 
They  had  "  waited  patiently  upon  the  Lord,"  and 
he  had  heard  their  cry,  and  twice  appeared  for 
them  when  they  were  in  deep  distress. 

"  He  is  a  faithful  God,  and  he  will  continue  to 
provide  for  us,"  said  Mrs.  Allerton  one  day,  while 
her  husband,  as  was  his  custom,  was  recounting 
their  many  mercies.  But  God  was  to  provide  for 
them  in  a  way  which  they  knew  not.  They  need- 


188  THE   PURITAN    FAMILY. 

ed  one  chastisement  more ;  one  idol  stood  in  the 
way  of  the  perfecting  of  their  love  ;  and  one  more 
sorrow  was  near. 

Arabella  faded  away  so  gently,  and  sweetly, 
and  slowly,  that  spring  passed  and  earl}-  June 
came  with  its  flowers  and  its  balmy  breath,  before 
her  friends  were  aware  how  near  she  was  to  her 
long  home,  —  how  far  from  all  hope  of  rescue. 
"NVhen  they  awoke  to  the  reality,  they  endured  a 
long,  terrible  struggle,  to  bring  themselves  to  give 
up  their  first-born,  their  only  child.  Mr.  Allerton 
was  first  subdued  to  a  perfect  resignation  to  God's 
will.  At  length  the  mother  too  came  one  day  to 
her  husband, —  her  pale  countenance  radiant  with 
its  look  of  peace.  "  It  is  over,"  said  she,  "  I  am 
now  willing  to  give  her  up.  Let  us  seek  to  make 
her  comfortable  while  she  lingers  with  us,  and  to 
strengthen  her  for  the  great  change." 

"  Blessed  be  God,  the  sting  of  death  is  passed," 
replied  he.  "  We  trust  she  is  fitted  for  Christ's 
presence  ;  we  have  not  an  anxious  thought  for 
her.  As  for  us,  God  will  keep  us  by  sharp  tra- 
vails, in  a  faithful,  watchful,  humble,  praying 
frame." 

It  was  with  much  joy  that  Arabella  observed 
the  change  in  her  parents.  She  experienced  such 
clear  and  delightful  views  of  God's  character, — 
she  felt  so  sweetly  resigned  to  his  will,  —  so  wil- 


THE    PURITAN    FAMILY.  189 

ling  to  lie  passive  in  his  hands,  —  to  go  or  stay, — 
to  suffer  much  or  little,  —  that  it  grieved  her  if 
they  found  only  "  clouds  and  darkness  "  around 
about  him.  When  they  emerged  from  these,  and 
like  children  received  the  bitter  cup  from  the 
hands  of  a  kind  Father,  the  last  thorn  was  taken 
away  ;  it  only  remained  for  her  to  die  in  peace. 

Arabella  had  made  many  friends.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
"Wilson  came  often  to  see  her ;  as  did  also  Gov. 
Winthrop's  family.  Deane  had  been  much  with 
her  ever  since  Hetty's  escape.  That  his  interest 
in  her  was  not  all  unselfish,  became  very  evident; 
but  it  was  as  evident,  that  for  some  reason  he  kept 
his  feelings  in  constant  check.  He  read  to  her 
as  long  as  she  was  able  to  hear  reading ;  —  and 
brought  to  her  sick  room  the  choicest  flowers  of 
summer.  She  treated  him  as  a  brother.  She  had 
many  ties  to  bind  her  to  this  world  ;  but  Faith, 
who  had  been  her  companion  thus  far  on  her  pil- 
grimage, now  took  her  on  his  tireless  wing  to  the 
"  City  of  our  God,"  and  her  soul  was  filled  with 
its  beauty.  She  seemed  to  linger  here  more  like 
an  angel,  whose  message  is  delivered,  —  but  who, 
inasmuch  as  his  heart  is  in  it,  waiteth  yet,  ere  he 
bear  the  record. 

Very  early  one  morning,  Deane  Winthrop  came 
in,  apparently  much  agitated,  and  requested  to  see 
Arabella  alone  for  a  few  moments.  Mrs.  Allerton 
hesitated,  for  Arabella  had  had  a  feeble  night,  and 


190  THE    PURITAN   FA  MILT. 

had  b(>"n  rapidly  failing  for  several  days.  Un- 
willing, however,  to  refuse  him,  she  went  to  see  if 
her  daughter  were  able  to  receive  him. 

"  M ost  certainly,  dear  mother ;  I  feel  easy  and 
quiet  now,  —  let  Deane  come  in." 

Mrs.  Allerton  left  them  alone  ;  but  finding  that 
Deanc  remained  longer  than  she  thought  prudent, 
she  gently  opened  the  door.  Deane  was  standing 
by  the  window,  and  there  were  traces  of  tears  on 
his  cheeks.  Arabella  lay  quite  still,  with  her 
hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes  closed  as  if  she  were 
at  prayer.  Deane  stept  softly  by  her  and  passed 
out,  and  Mrs.  Allerton  remained  standing  until 
Arabella  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  she,  with  a  smile  and  a 
slight  flush  on  her  pale  cheek  ;  "  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you  and  father.  Will  you  raise  me  a 
little  and  give  me  my  medicine?  Let  in  a  little 
more  light,  mother  dear,  and  now  call  father." 

Silently  her  mother  obeyed  her. 

'•What  have  you  to  say  to  us,  my  daughter?" 
said  Mr.  Allerton,  —  "  we  know  that  you  are  soon 
to  leave  us  —  have  you  any  requests  to  make  ?  " 

"Put  your  hand  under  me,  mother,  —  there. 
What  I  have  to  say  to  you  is  this:  You  remember 
Francis  Walton,  and  you  know  that  we  were 
brought  up  together,  —  and  I  wish  to  tell  you  — 
that  we  loved  each  other." 

"  Do  not  agitate  yourself,  dear  Bella ;    mother 


THE    PURITAN"    FAMILY.  191 

can  easily  understand  that."  Arabella  turned  her 
deep  blue  eye  full  on  her  mother,  as  if  to  thank 
her  and  went  on  — 

"  I  think  Francis  loved  the  Saviour ;  I  am  sure 
he  did ;  we  talked  much  and  often  of  Him.  And 
Francis  would  gladly  have  come  with  us  here,  that 
he  might  labor  for  Him  —  but  —  " 

"  His  uncle,  upon  whom  he  is  dependent,  utterly 
refused.  I  know  that,  dear  Bella,  for  I  had  a  talk 
with  the  old  gentleman  myself,  and  I  did  not  think 
it  would  be  right  for  Francis  to  leave  his  uncle 
alone  in  his  old  age." 

"  You  were  right  in  that,  father ;  and  it  was 
my  duty  to  follow  you,  and  so  we  parted,  as  we 
thought  —  forever." 

'•  My  precious  child,"  said  her  mother,  "  and 
have  you  done  all  this,  so  uncomplainingly, for  us?  " 

"  For  you  and  for  Christ,"  said  Arabella.  "I  felt 
that  it  was  my  duty,  and  I  have  never  regretted 
it ;  God  ha.s  made  it  a  burden  light  to  bear.  Let 
me  say  to  you  both,  that  I  rejoice  and  bless  God 
that  he  put  it  into  your  hearts  to  come  over  here, 
and  gave  me  grace  to  come  with  you.  It  is  a 
comfort  to  me.  now.  It  is  sweet  to  die  among  God's 
chosen  people.  I  feel  it ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
think  of  this  when  I  am  gone." 

"  And  what  of  Francis  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Allerton. 

"  He  is  here,"  said  Arabella,  gently ;  u  he  ar- 


192  THE    PURITAN*   FAMILY. 

rived  last  night.  Deane  has  seen  him.  He  loves 
me  still  —  us  I  do  him.  He  has  come  to  claim 
me  for  hrs  bride  —  " 

"  There  was  a  lo«.g  silence  — 

"  And  his  uncle  ?  " 

« Is  dead." 

"  To  claim  me  for  his  bride ! "  Death  has 
prior  claims,  poor  youth.  Say,  dying  one  !  — doth 
this  last  temptation  gain  the  victory  over  thee?  — 
Art  thou  now  unwilling  to  hear  thy  Lord  call? 
Not  so  —  not  so  —  "I  know  in  whom  I  have  be- 
lieved, and  nothing  is  able  to  separate  me  from  the 
love  of  Christ."  This  was  the  response  of  the 
young  pilgrim. 

"  And  what  would  you  wish  us  to  do  ?  "  mourn- 
fully asked  the  mother. 

"  Send  for  Mr.  Wilson.  Francis  will  be  here 
at  noon,  by  my  request.  Prepare  for  me  a  dress 
as  I  wish,  dear  mother ;  and  let  it  be  to-day.  Time 
presses,  father.  I  may  not  see  another  dawn.  I 
would  not  leave  you  childless.  God  sends  an  af- 
fectionate son,  who  will  comfort  you.  He  will  love 
you  for  my  sake.  He  will  have  nothing  but  you 
left  to  love  in  this  world.  I  would  give  him  a 
right  to  be  called  son,  before  I  die." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Francis  Walton  arrived. 
Arabella  was  ready  to  receive  him.  She  had  select- 
ed from  her  wardrobe  a  plain,  white,  loose  dress. 


THE    PUKITAX    FAMILY.  193 

At  her  request,  her  mother  had  plaited  a  wreath 
of  white  rose-buds  in  her  hair. 

"  Mother,"  whispered  she,  "  let  this  be  the  last 
dress  which  he  shall  see  me  wear." 

Many  tears  dropped  on  that  white  wreafh.  The 
mother  decked  her  child  for  the  bridal,  and  the 
grave  !  Mr.  Wilson  and  Deane  "Winthrop  entered 
the  room  at  one  o'clock,  and  the  sad  ceremony- 
took  place.  Francis  supported  his  bride  upon  a 
pillow,  which  was  raised  to  rest  upon  his  shoulder. 
Mr.  "Wilson  prayed  that  God  would  bless  this 
union,  not  of  the  living  with  the  dead,  but  of  a 
mortal  with  an  angelic  being,  whose  wing  was  al- 
ready plumed  for  flight ;  and  that  when  she  had 
taken  her  departure,  her  partner  might,  in  thought, 
visit  her  so  much  in  heaven,  that  it  should  be  seen 
and  felt  by  all,  that  he  walked  with  God. 

Mrs.  Allerton's  fears  that  the  bridal  wreath 
might  not  fade  before  being  needed  again,  did  not 
prove  true.  Arabella  seemed  to  rally,  and  lingered 
yet  a  little  longer  to  comfort  and  cheer  her  young 
husband.  Her  last  hours  were  sweetened  by  his 
presence,  and  she  was  much  comforted  by  his  fer- 
vent and  manly  piety.  She  was  grateful  that  God 
had  permitted  her  to  see  how  he  would  provide 
for  her  parents  in  their  solitude.  Thus,  full  of 
peace  and  joy,  with  every  earthly  wish  gratified 
—  she  "  fell  asleep." 

17 


XII. 

THE    RETROSPECT. 

THE  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter,  ad- 
dressed by  Mr.  Allerton,  to  a  friend  in  England :  — 

"  Mine  eyes  drop  down  many  tears,  when  I  re- 
call the  way  in  which  God  has  led  us,  and  the 
mercies  which  have  mingled  with  all  our  trials. 
When  my  dear  wife  lay  at  the  point  of  death,  He 
gave  unto  us  such  support  that  I  believe  we  felt 
in  our  souls  not  a  wish  to  detain  her,  if  it  were  His 
will  that  she  should  go  ;  and  when  He  had  brought 
us  to  this  frame  of  mind,  then  He  restored  her  to 
us,  like  one  "sent  from  the  dead."  At  the  season 
of  our  deep  anxiety  for  our  faithful  old  Hetty,  He 
raised  up  friends  for  us ;  and  blessed  the  means 
for  her  escape,  and  stilled  the  angry  tumult  around 
us,  causing  even  "  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise 
Him ;"  —  for  our  tormentor,  who  had  done  us  this 
great  evil,  seemed  as  if  worked  upon  by  her  own 
conscience,  to  such  a  degree  that  .she  soon  left  us, 
and  our  neighborhood  was  restored  to  quiet,  and 
not  a  complaint  has  been  heard  from  that  day  to 
this.  Then  came  heavier  trials, —  and  larger 
mercies.  Our  beloved  and  tender  child  sunk  un- 
der the  cruel  winter,  and  fell  into  a  decline.  But 
her  Christian  graces  ripened  fast ;  we  saw  and  felt 
that  she  was  "  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  and  God 


THE    PUKITAX    FAMILY.  195 

brought  both  her  and  her  mother,  and  myself  to  such 
a  state  of  heart,  that  we  no  longer  desired  to  krep 
her  in  this  world  of  sin.  We  blessed  God  that  He 
had  given  us  such  a  daughter  ;  and  I  trust  we 
cheerfully  returned  the  gift,  feeling  that  we  should 
not  be  forever  separated.  She  was  dismissed  from 
her  earthly  tabernacle  without  suffering,  and  fell 
asleep  in  Jesus,  as  an  infant  falls  asleep,  lulled  on 
its  mother's  breast. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  behold  what  great 
care  God  took  of  us  at  this  last  extremity.  Pie 
sent  us  over  a  most  worthy  and- amiable  son,  who 
had  long  known  and  loved  our  dear  child  ;  and 
she  was  united  to  him,  on  her  dying  bed,  that  she 
might  give  him  a  right  to  call  us  parents ;  and 
when  she  left  us,  her  mind  was  sweetly  at  rest 
concerning  us.  You  know  not  what  a  comfort  he 
is :  my  wife  seems  to  feel  for  him  as  for  an  own 
child.  I  trust  he  will  be  the  stay  and  comfort  of 
our  old  age.  I  have  many  more  mercies  to  recount, 
—  among  others,  that  Mrs.  Allerton  and  myself 
have  never  been  in  better  health  than  now.  Fran- 
cis, also,  is  well  and  cheerful.  My  farm  and  mer- 
chandize prosper.  Good  Hetty  has  returned  to 
us,  bringing  with  her  a  pleasant  niece,  who  will 
assist  her  in  her  labors.  God  smiles  upon  us 
every  way.  He  '  lifts  upon  us  the  light  of  his 
countenance,'  —  and  we  rejoice. 

"  I  left  my  native  land  for  '  conscience'  sake,'  and 
if  God  will  employ  so  feeble  an  instrument  in  this 
great  work  of  advancing  His  kingdom,  I  will 
spend  and  be  spent  for  Him  ;  rejoicing  that  I  may 
be  accounted  worthy  to  build  up  the  holy  things  of 
Christ.  My  angel-child  had  her  heart  much  in 


196  THE   PURITAN   FAMILY. 

this  work ;  she  often  told  us  this  in  her  last  sick- 
ness ;  and  she  hath  left  us  the  rich  legacy  of  her 
spirit.  I  trust  we  shall  follow  her  example,  until 
our  labor  is  also  done,  and  we  lie  down  to  rest 
with  her." 


THE   CLOUDY   MORNING, 


A     TALE     FOR     MOTHERS. 


"  Beauty,  thou  art  twice  blessed.  Thou  art  a  precious 
gift  of  heaven  to  those  who  love,  and  to  those  who  wish 
to  be  loved." 

HELEN  CLAY  was  an  uncommonly  beautiful 
infant.  Her  soft,  flaxen  ringlets,  fell  over  a  neck 
and  brow  which  were  almost  as  white  as  alabaster. 
Her  clear,  loving,  blue  eyes,  laughed  out  from 
under  long  silken  lashes,  and  two  beautiful  dim- 
ples stood  like  little  cherubs  each  side  of  her  pret- 
ty mouth.  "  What  a  beauty ! "  exclaimed  almost 
every  one  who  looked  upon  her.  Helen  did  not 
outgrow  the  beauty  of  her  baby-hood.  Every 
year  seemed  to  add  a  fresh  grace. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  her  sister  Laura. 
She  would  have  responded  to  the  motto  of  our 
story,  with  deep  feeling.  Nature,  so  lavish  in  her 
gifts  to  the  younger  born,  had  been  very  parsimo- 
nious to  Laura.  She  was  almost  ugly  in  her  per- 
sonal appearance ;  and  yet  her  face  could  not, 
17* 


198  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

with  strict  justice,  have  been  called  so,  —  for  it 
was  a  most  expressive  face ;  it  was  a  great  tell- 
tale. A  more  striking  contrast,  however,  between 
two  sisters,  is  seldom  seen ;  and  this  was  not  con- 
fined to  personal  appearance  alone.  Helen,  but- 
terfly-like, seemed  made  for  sunshine  ;  by  a  natu- 
ral instinct,  she  seemed  to  find  it  both  within  and 
without.  There  are  some  such  children.  She 
was  a  bright,  quick,  active  child,  warm-hearted, 
affectionate  in  her  manners,  and  noisy  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  love,  whether  it  was  for  doll,  kit- 
ten, playmate,  or  mother.  She  was  ready  to  love 
the  object  nearest  her ;  though  it  were  something 
new  every  day,  it  seemed  to  matter  little.  Take 
away  her  doll,  she  would  play  twice  as  much  with 
her  kitten.  Regret  would  not  long  overshadow 
her  path.  Helen  lived  in  neither  the  past  nor  the 
future,  —  she  was  all  for  the  bright  sunny  present, 
Laura  was  a  night-shade.  The  scenes  which 
ehe  planned  and  acted  in  her  baby-world,  we«-e  all 
tragic.  They  would  be  full  of  accident,  and  sick- 
ness, and  death,  and  funerals.  Her  intellect  was 
not  above  mediocrity.  She  had  more  imagination 
than  Helen,  and  a  better  memory,  but  her  compre- 
hension was  much  less  ready  ;  she  had  none  of 
Helen's  quick  tact.  In  childish  temper,  also,  they 
were  opposite.  Helen's  would  flash  up  at  a  little 
provocation,  meteor-like,  then  all  would  fall  softly 


THE    CLOUDY   MORXIXG.  199 

as  a  snow-flake,  and  be  quiet  again.  Laura's  was 
not  easily  excited ;  but  once  roused,  the  storm 
lasted  long;  and  a  desperate  fit  of  what  her  mo- 
ther called  '  the  sullens,'  ensued.  When  Laura 
loved,  her  words  were  few ;  but  the  last  fragment 
of  the  doll  or  toy  with  which  she  had  long  played, 
•was  dearer  to  her  than  a  new  one.  She  was  also 
painfully  awkward  in  expressing  her  feelings. 
Helen  could  throw  her  arms  around  her  mother's 
neck,  and,  almost  smothering  her  with  her  cares- 
ses, talk  herself  out  of  breath  in  telling  how  much 
she  loved  her.  Laura  sometimes  laid  her  head 
upon  her  mother's  knee,  her  little  heart  swelling 
with  feelings  for  which  she  could  find  no  words- 
She  was  not  easily  appreciated  or  understood  by 
strangers,  —  neither,  alas !  by  those  who  should 
have  known  her  well. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clay  loved  their  children,  and 
took  good  care  of  them,  —  that  is,  attended  to 
all  their  obvious  wants ;  but  they  were  not 
thoughtful  parents.  They  never  dreamed  of  study- 
ing the  different  natures  of  their  children.  Early 
judicious  management  might  have  counteracted 
the  morbid  and  melancholy  tendencies  of  Laura ; 
but  every  day  brought  its  cares,  every  evening  its 
fatigues,  and  thus  the  years  slipped  by,  and  their 
child  was  in  one  sense  a  stranger  at  home.  They 
at  length  settled  into  the  conviction,  that  their  first- 


200  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

born  was  rather  an  unfortunate,  strange  child,  who 
cared  little  for  any  one  excepting  herself.  Yet, 
she  often  made  an  attempt  to  open  her  heart  to 
her  mother,  and  tell  her  the  little  thoughts  which 
were  struggling  there  ;  but  a  careless  word,  an  in- 
attentive look,  an  inapposite  remark,  or,  worse 
than  all,  an  ill-timed  reproof,  blasted  in  the  bud 
that  confidence  which  it  was  of  the  first  impor 
tance  to  that  child  to  have  encouraged.  She  shrunk 
away  and  said  to  herself,  "  I  am  a  strange  child." 
This  grew  with  her  growth.  Her  active  imagi- 
nation aggravated  every  defect  into  a  deformity, 
every  mistake  into  a  fault.  She  early  felt  that 
she  had  nothing  in  common  with  other  children. 
She  feared  observation ;  she  became  very  often 
depressed  and  discouraged.  At  school,  she  made 
no  effort  to  rise  to  even  an  equality  with  her 
mates,  —  she  felt  sure  that  she  should  fail,  if  she 
did  attempt  it.  A  few  encouraging  words  now 
and  then,  might  have  incited  her  ambition ;  but 
how  often  does  it  happen  in  a  crowded  school-room, 
that  individual  peculiarities  are  known  and  cared 
for  ?  Laura  was  reproved  oftener  than  any  one 
of  her  companions  ;  this  made  her  reserved  and 
silent,  and  therefore  she  was  not  much  loved  as  a 
playmate.  Because  of  this  reserve,  her  teacher 
fell  into  the  same  error  with  her  parents.  A  cross 
word  might  be  spoken  to  Helen,  and  there  came 


THE    CLOUDY   MORXIXG.  201 

a  violent  flood  of  tears,  which  soon  washed  away 
the  sorrow.  Let  the  same  be  spoken  to  Laura, 
and  perhaps  the  deepened  color  would  be  the  only 
evidence  of  emotion,  —  while  in  her  heart  there 
was  left  a  sting  which  she  felt  many  days.  She 
would  say  nothing  ;  they  would  call  her  sullen  and 
obstinate,  and  sometimes  punish  her  again  and 
more  severely,  still  with  as  little  apparent  effect. 
She  acquired  at  an  early  age  a  great  power  of  self- 
control  for  a  child. 


ONE  evening,  Laura  came  to  the  tea-table  with 
a  face  unusually  bright  and  animated. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  "  may  I  go  to  ride  with  the 
girls,  to-morrow  ?  There  is  a  party  going  out  on 
horseback,  and  they  are  all  to  stop  at  Farmer 
Hill's,  and  have  a  treat.  May  I  go,  father,  to- 
morrow ?  " 

Mr.  Clay  had  just  returned  from  a  long  walk, 
and  was  tired,  and  heated.  Sometimes,  when  a 
person  does  not  feel  particularly  good-natured,  he 
takes  a  delight  in  exercising  power  in  such  a  way 
as  to  give  pain.  It  gives  him  the  conseiou.-ness 
that  he  has  the  power,  and  he  is  not  in  the  mood 
to  think  carefully,  that  he  is  making  others  unhap- 
j  j.  Tliis  was  not  Mr.  Clay's  mood. 

"  To  ride  ?  "  said  he.    "  It  seems  to  me  that  you 


202  THE    CLOUDY    MORXIXG. 

are  always  having  some  foolish  thing  going  on.  I 
think  the  girls  had  all  better  stay  at  home  and 
mind  their  books." 

"  But,  father,  to-morrow  is  Saturday." 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?     Who,  pray,  is  going  ?  " 

"  O,  four  of  us,  father." 

"  Foolish  plan  enough,  I  think.  Some  of  you 
will  get  your  necks  broken." 

"  Do,  father,"  said  Helen,  "  let  her  go.  I  went 
last  time." 

"Well,  what  of  that?" 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Clay,  she  may  as  well  go,"  said 
her  mother,  "  our  horse  is  very  gentle." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  held  out  his  tumbler  for 
some  water.  Laura  filled  the  glass  too  full ;  it 
spilled  over  upon  his  dinner  plate,  and  ran  down 
into  his  sleeve.  What  a  little  thing  will  turn  the 
scale  of  an  ill-balanced  temper.  "  Look  out,  Lau- 
ra, you  careless  child !  You  never  poured  out  a 
glass  of  water  in  your  life,  without  spilling  it.  If 
you  can't  learn  to  be  less  kvvkward,  I  wish  you 
would  keep  away  from  the  table  tin  you  can.  Go 
to  ride !  No,  that  you  shall  nor,  until  you  can 
learn  to  have  your  wits  a  little  more  about  you. 
So,  content  yourself  to  stay  at  home,  miss." 

"  O,  father, "  began  Helen. 

"  Hush,  Helen,  I  have  settled  it.  I  wont  have 
her  riding  about ;  it  is  not  safe ;  she  will  have  her 


THE    CLOUDY    MORNING.  203 

neck  broken,  next,  —  she  is  so  careless.  If  she 
ever  learns  to  be  like  other  folks,  I  shall  be  glad.' 

Tears,  scalding  tears,  started  to  Laura's  eyes. 
She  took  up  her  cup  to  hide  them,  and  swallowed 
them  down  with  her  hot  tea ;  but  they  burnt  to 
her  heart's  core.  No  one  spoke,  and  before  long, 
all  rose  to  leave  the  table. 

"  Come,"  said  Mr.  Clay,  who  was  now  quite 
good-humored,  "  who  wants  to  go  and  rake  hay 
with  me  ?  " 

"  I,  I,"  said  Helen ;  "  come,  Laura,  it  is  good 
fun.  Why  do  n't  you  come,  Laura  ?  Where  are 
you  going?" 

"  To  my  room  to  get  my  lessons.  I  do  n't  want 
to  turn  hay." 

"  Come,  come,  Helen,  Laura  is  sullen ;  let  her 
alone.  I  do  n't  want  any  sullen  girls  with  me." 

Still  the  child  kept  back  the  tears,  until  she  was 
fairly  in  her  room,  and  had  locked  her  door  ;  then 
the  lacerated  feelings  found  vent.  The  flood-gates 
once  opened,  all  control  became  impossible ;  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillow,  to  stifle  the  convulsive  sobs  which  she 
could  no  longer  command.  A  deep  darkness 
seemed  to  rest  upon  all  the  world  ;  she  saw  no  ray 
of  joy ;  she  had  no  consciousness  but  of  misery. 
Now  and  then,  through  the  still  summer  air,  came 
up  Helen's  merry  voice,  as  she  frolicked  with  her 


204  THE    CLOUDY   MOKXIXG. 

father  in  the  newly -made  hay.  Laura  heard  it 
with  feelings  perhaps  not  unlike  those  with  which 
the  lost  hear  the  angels  sing,  and  it  added  much 
to  her  woe.  Childhood  does  shed  bitter  tears. 
The  happy  voices  at  last  ceased ;  darkness  crept 
on.  Some  one  tapped  gently  at  the  door,  once, 
twice,  thrice.  "  Laura !  Laura !  it  is  me  —  only 
me.  The  folks  are  all  gone  away.  Let  me  in." 

"  Is  it  you,  dear  Amy  ?  "  said  the  child,  unbar 
ring  the  door,  and  throwing  her  arms  about  the 
old  nurse's  neck,  while  her  sobs  broke  forth  afresh 

"  La !  now,  I  thought  as  much.  What  upon 
arth  have  they  been  a-saying  to  you  now,  to  make 
you  take  on  so.  But  there,  Laura,  don't  mind 
none  of  'em."  Amy  seated  herself  in  the  rocking 
chair,  and  drew  Laura  to  her,  and  rested  the  little 
throbbing  head  upon  her  bosom.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened now,  dearie  ?  " 

"  O  Amy,"  said  the  child,  in  a  tone  of  the  deep- 
est woe,  "  nobody  loves  me,  Amy,  in  this  wide 
world.  I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  wish  I  was  dead  and 
buried,  Amy." 

The  good  old  nurse  wiped  away  her  own  fast- 
flowing  tears  with  a  corner  of  her  apron,  and  tried 
to  steady  her  trembling  voice.  "Not  love  you, 
Laura?  —  nobody  love  you?  Bless  your  little 
heart,  do  n't  /  love  you  better  than  my  own  soul 
and  body  ?  How  can  you  talk  so  ?  I  guess  some 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  205 

folks  that  scold  some  folks  will  have  something  to 
answer  for,  one  of  these  days." 

"  They  cannot  help  it,"  said  Laura ;  "  no  one 
can  love  me.  I  am  not  like  other  people.  Helen 
is  good,  and  pretty,  and  happy.  Mother  loves  her, 
and  father  loves  her,  —  everybody  loves  her,  and 
likes  to  have  her  about.  But  they  do  n't  love  me, 
and  they  can't.  I  wish  I  was  out  of  their  way — in 
my  grave,  and  then  no  one  would  have  the  trouble 
of  me, —  yes  I  do  ! " 

"  There  —  there  —  do  n't  talk  so  any  more," 
said  Amy,  coming  to  her  better  self —  "  they  do  n't 
know  they  hurt  your  feelins  so  much.  They 
do  n't  know  you  've  got  any  feelins ;  you  never  say 
nothing.  If  you  only  cried,  like  Helen,  they 
would  n't  scold  you.  Why  't  was  no  more  nor 
day  afore  yesterday,  I  heard  your  father  say 
to  Helen, '  What  a  great  cry-baby  you  are  ;  I  wish 
you  would  behave  more  like  Laura ;  she  does  n't 
make  such  a  baby  of  herself.'  There  now,  darling, 
—  everybody  loves  you  that  knows  you,  so  do  n't 
cry  any  more.  Bless  me,  how  your  temples  beat ; 
and  how  hot  your  little  head  is  !  Does  n't  it  ache  ?  " 

"  O  Amy,  it  aches  very  —  very  hard  ! " 

"  Well,  there  —  there  —  do  n't  cry  any  more,  — 

everything  will   be   right   to-morrow."       So    she 

emoothed  the  damp  hair  from  the  child's  burning 

forehead,  and  rocked  her  to  and  fro,  like  an  infant ; 

18 


206  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

and  soothed  her  with  homely  words,  —  but  they 
were  those  of  love,  and  they  were  grateful  as  the 
gentle  dew.  The  tears  of  her  little  charge  ceased 
to  flow  ;  the  head  became  more  heavy  on  the 
nurse's  arm  ;  the  sobs  changed  to  heavy  sighs  — 
then  into  occasional  convulsive  starts.  She  seem- 
ed to  be  listening  to  the  old  nursery  songs,  which 
Amy  was  softly  singing  to  her  as  she  rocked  her 
there  in  the  dark.  Amy  ceased  at  last,  and  bent  over 
her,  —  she  had  fallen  into  an  uneasy  sleep.  Gent- 
ly, as  a  mother  dresses  her  first-born,  Amy  pre- 
pared her  darling  for  bed,  put  her  head  upon  the 
smooth,  cool  pillow,  waited  awhile  to  see  if  she 
would  awake  —  then  kissed  her  burning  cheek, 
and  wiping  her  own  eyes  softly  left  the  room. 
And  all  this  suffering  was  for  a  few  hasty,  cutting 
words,  which  her  father,  twice  blind,  thought  had 
fallen  on  stony  ground.  What  can  release  a  parent 
from  the  duty  of  knowing  his  own  child  ? 


"  HELEN,"  said  her  mother  one  day,  "  I  think 
you  need  a  new  trimming  to  your  hat ;  this  never 
was  very  becoming,  and  now  it  is  faded." 

"  Why  can't  I  have  one,  too  ?  I  had  mine  just 
when  Helen  did,"  said  Laura. 

"  Well,  that  is  no  matter,  —  that  is  becoming 
enough  to  you,  and  I  can't  trim^but  one  at  present." 


THE    CI  OUDT   MORNING.  207 

"That  must  be  Helen's,  of  course,"  thought 
Laura,  —  "she  is  pretty,  and  I  am  not"  She  did 
not  speak,  however,  and  her  eyes  returned  to  her 
book.  It  so  chanced,  for  once,  that  her  father  ob- 
served the  flush  on  her  cheek. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  said  he,  putting  down  his  paper ; 
*  mother,  what  is  all  this  ?  " 

"Nothing,  only  I  think  it  best  to  retrim  Helen's 
bonnet,  and  Laura  is  sullen  about  it ;  just  as  she 
always  is.  It  is  n't  best  to  take  any  notice  of  her." 

"  I  am  not  sullen  now,  mother,"  said  Laura,  try- 
ing to  smile.  Her  father  detected  the  tremor  in 
her  voice.  "  Now,  Mrs.  Clay,"  said  he,  "  I  wont 
have  any  partiality  shown ;  if  you  get  Helen  a 
new  bonnet,  you  must  get  one  for  Laura." 

"  Why  Mr.  Clay,  I  tell  you  her's  will  do  very 
well  for  the  present,  well  enough  for  her.  If  she 
is  not  contented  with  that,  let  her  go  without." 

"  Aye,  aye  !  if  that 's  the  case,  Miss  Helen  may 
•go  without  too."  Helen  put  up  her  beautiful  lips. 
"  Hush  up  there,  now,"  said  her  father ;  "  I  '11  have 
none  of  that.  You  are  a  great  cry-baby.  I  '11  see 
if  I  can't  put  a  stop  to  it ! " 

u  Well,  if  Helen  does  cry,  it 's  all  over  with  and 
she  is  pleasant  —  and  does  n't  go  moping  about  all 
day,  as  some  other  little  folks  do." 

Laura  bit  her  lips,  choked,  and  then  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  her  book  very  rapidly,  but  her 


208  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

father's  eye  was  now  upon  her.  "  Well,  the  long 
and  the  short  is,  Mrs.  Clay,  that  I  '11  not  have  any 
partiality  shown.  I  do  n't  think  you  do  right  to 
find  quite  so  much  fault  with  Laura." 

"  1 !  I  am  not  finding  fault,  I  am  sure ;  I 
was  only  speaking  of  the  bonnet." 

"  Laura,  my  daughter,  come  and  let  father  see 
what  you  are  reading."  The  unusually  kind  and 
gentle  tones  in  which  this  was  said  cut  their  way 
to  the  child's  heart.  "  Come,  my  dear,  father  will 
see  that  his  little  daughters  share  alike."  He 
drew  her  to  him,  placed  her  on  his  knee,  caressing- 
ly parted  her  smooth  hair,  and  kissed  her.  They 
might  have  scolded  her  from  morning  to  night, 
without  drawing  forth  a  word  or  a  tear ;  but  the 
heart  had  no  armor  that  was  proof  against  kind- 
ness,—  neither  has  that  of  any  child.  Laura 
threw  her  arms  around  her  father's  neck,  and  sob- 
bed aloud.  He  was  surprised  —  more,  astonished. 
He  could  not  comprehend  it.  It  was  a  new  and 
strange  development.  He  understood  about  as 
much  of  the  delicate  net-work  of  that  young  heart, 
as  he  who  slaughters  for  the  shambles  understands 
the  mechanism  of  the  human  eye.  Yet  his  feel- 
ings were  touched,  and  something  like  self-reproach 
arose.  He  soothed  her  as  well  as  he  knew  how, 
and  wiped  away  her  tears. 

u  What  is  all  this  about  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clay, 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  209 

in  wonder.  "  Why  Laura,  who  would  ever  have 
thought  of  your  making  such  a  fuss  about  a  bonnet- 
ribbon  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Clay,  I  '11  not  have  Laura 
blamed  any  more." 

"  I  am  sure  I  had  no  thoughts  of  blaming  her, 
Mr.  Clay.  I  should  be  very  glad  to  fix  her  hat 
too,  if  you  think  best.  Laura,  what  color  will  you 
have,  green  or  cherry  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Clay,  after  the  children 
had  left  the  room ;  "  it  wont  do  to  speak  to  Laura 
so ;  the  child  has  more  feeling  than  we  think  for." 

"  I  always  knew  she  had  feeling  enough,"  was 
the  reply  ;  "  but  she  is  a  strange  child.  I  do  n't 
know  what  she  will  make  in  the  world,  I  'm  sure  ; 
not  much,  I'm  afraid.  Her  teacher  says  she  is 
dull  at  her  books." 

"  I  do  n't  believe  that  —  I  do  n't  believe  that ; 
die  has  as  good  a  mind  as  Helen's,  and  you  are 
spoiling  Helen.  The  gypsy  is  getting  very  vain. 
You  flatter  her  too  much." 

"  1  flatter,  Mr.  Clay  ?  I  never  told  her  she  was 
pretty  in  my  life ;  it  is  you  who  tell  her  that.  Be- 
sides, she  must  find  it  out  some  time  or  other,  and 
we  cannot  help  it  ;  a  few  months  earlier  or  later 
will  make  no  difference." 


210  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

WITH  such  influences  around  her  in  her  child- 
hood, it  is  not  surprising  that  Laura,  as  she  passed 
into  her  teens,  became  sober,  thoughtful,  reserved, 
silent,  unintelligible.  Such  was  her  character  when, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen,  she  entered  Miss  Merton's 
boarding-school. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  new  scholar  ?"  said 
one  of  the  group  of  school-girls  who  were  collect- 
ed around  the  fire  before  breakfast. 

«  Who,  that  Miss  Clay  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Oh  !  she  is  very  homely,  is  n't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  very,  very  !  "  echoed  several  voices. 

"  Now,  I  do  n't  think  so,"  said  Mary  Hale  ;  "  she 
has  a  sensible  face,  and  most  beautiful  hair,  I  am 
sure." 

"  But  she  fixes  it  so  out  of  all  manner  of  taste 
—  so  countrified." 

"  That  may  be  the  fashion  where  she  came  from  ; 
she  looks  like  a  good  solid  girl." 

"  Why,  Mary  Hale,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  I 
never  saw  a  more  solemn  face  on  any  one.  She 
looks  as  if  she  had  lost  every  friend  she  had  iu 
the  world.  I  do  n't  believe  she  knows  how  to  laugh  1" 

"  She  has  left  all  her  friends,  and  I  d;:re  say 
the  poor  girl  is  homesick.  Do  not  you  recollect 
how  you  felt  when  you  came  among  us  a  perfect 
Btranger  ?  " 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  211 

"  But,"  interrupted  another,  "  you  did  not  look 
so  proud  and  haughty." 

"  How  can  you  call  her  so  ?  "  persisted  the  good 
Mary  Hale  ;  "  I  cannot  see  anything  about  her 
that  looks  like  pride." 

"  O,  Mary,  Mary,  there  you  are  wrong,"  ex- 
claimed several  voices  at  once.  "  She  never  looks 
up,"  continued  one;  "and  she  goes  about  as  if  she 
did  not  care  to  know  us,  and  thought  herself  better 
than  any  one  else.  Here  is  Miss  Merton,  let  us 
ask  her.  If  Miss  Clay  is  not  proud  and  haughty, 
then  I  lose  my  guess." 

"  Now,  do  tell  me  the  difference." 

"  Why,  proud  —  is  proud  —  " 

"And  haughty  is  haughty,"  added  another." 

"  What  is  all  this,  young  ladies  ?  " 

"  We  are  discussing  Miss  Clay,  and  all  of  us 
think  her  proud  and  haughty,  but  Mary  Hale, 
who  thinks  every  one  perfection.  Wont  you  tell 
us  what  you  think,  Miss  Merton  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  a  piece  of  injustice  to  pass 
an  opinion  on  a  poor  girl  who  has  come  among  us 
an  entire  stranger,  and  is  depressed  with  home- 
sickness." 

"  Well,  do  not  you  think  she  appears  so  ?  " 

"  Diffidence  and  reserve  are  very  often  mistak- 
en for  pride,  by  those  who  look  only  on  the  sur- 
face of  things." 


212  THE    CLOUDY    MORNING. 

"  I  am  sure  she  is  cold-hearted,"  said  a  little 
miss,  who  stood  with  each  arm  over  a  neighbor's 
neck. 

"  And  I  know  she  has  a  bad  disposition,"  whis- 
pered another. 

We  look  for  cheerfulness  and  good-humor  in 
youth,  as  much  as  we  look  for  buds  in  May,  —  and 
we  have  a  right  to  do  so.  Woe  to  you,  parent, 
if  you  have  brought  a  blight  over  life's  spring- 
time. 

Laura  was  perfectly  unconscious  what  an  un- 
happy expression  had  become  habitual  to  her,  and 
how  little  there  was  that  was  really  attractive  in 
her  appearance.  Neither  had  the  thought  ever 
come  into  her  mind,  that  she  had  any  power  over 
the  muscles  of  her  face. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Merton,  "  that  you  will  do 
all  you  can  to  make  Miss  Clay  forget  that  she  is 
a  stranger  among  us." 

"  I  know  I  never  shall  like  her,"  said  a  lively, 
prating  girl,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  "..But,  hush! 
here  she  comes."  The  little  mimic  drew  her  hand 
over  her  face,  and  extended  it  with  a  most  wof'ul 
expression.  She,  of  course,  did  not  wish  Laura 
to  see  it,  for  she  had  turned  her  back  to  the  door. 
But  Laura  did  see  it  and  at  once  drew  back,  that 
she  might  not  enter  a  circle  where  she  was  an  ob- 
ject of  ridicule.  That  little  mimic  would  have 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  213 

t 

gone  a  great  while  without  her  laugh,  if  she  had 
known  the  pain  it  gave.  Poor  Laura's  heart 
swelled  almost  to  bursting ;  she  would  at  once 
have  returned  to  her  room,  if  Miss  Merlon  had 
not  spoken  to  her. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Miss  Merton,  cheerfully, 
holding  out  her  hand,  "  wont  you  come  t6  the 
fire  ?  "  Laura  timidly  obeyed.  She  scarcely 
dared  to  raise  her  eyes ;  she  felt  that  she  was  an 
object  of  dislike  to  the  girls,  —  that  they  had  been 
making  fun  at  her  expense ;  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her  long-practised  habits  of  self-command,  she 
would  have  answered  the  kind  voice  of  Miss  Mer- 
ton with  a  flood  of  tears. 

When  once  more  alone  in  her  own  room,  she 
leaned  her  arm  on  the  table,  rested  her  head  on 
her  hands,  and  tears  dropped  fast  over  her  open 
book.  Thus  she  thought,  "  So  it  is  always,  so  it 
has  been,  and  so  it  must  be.  I  am  a  doomed 
thing.  How  foolish  I  was  for  a  single  minute  to 
wish  to  leave  home,  or  to  indulge  a  hope  that  if  I 
came  among  strangers,  I  might  find  some  one  to 
like  me.  I  will  write,  and  ask  to  be  taken  back 
again.  Helen  loves  me,  I  think,  and  father  and 
mother  too,  sometimes.  And  Amy  —  dear,  good 
old  Amy  —  if  I  could  only  put  my  arms  around 
her  neck,  it  would  do  my  soul  good.  Dear  heart! 
she,  I  know,  misses  me."  Thus  her  home  came 


214  THE    CLOUDY   MORXIXG. 

up  before  her  as  the  only  spot  in  the  wide  world, 
where  the  light  of  love,  feeble  as  it  was,  could 
shine  upon  her ;  and  her  heart  yearned  for  it. 
She  had  left  it  with  joy,  to  seek  some  better 
land ;  but,  with  the  cold  chill  of  disappointment, 
she  turned  back  to  it  with  fast-flowing  tears. 
What  else  could  she  do  ?  The  present  was  miser- 
able, —  the  future,  full  of  gloom,  —  so  ingenious 
had  she  become  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  in  making 
herself  miserable.  Father,  mother  !  this  character 
was  one  of  thine  own  forming. 

Long  had  she  indulged  in  this  painful  reverie, 
—  her  lesson  still  unlearned.  At  last,  some  one 
tapped  gently  at  her  door.  She  started,  gave  a 
hasty  glance  in  the  mirror ;  her  eyes  were  red  and 
swollen.  She  kept  perfectly  quiet.  They  tapped 
again ;  still,  no  reply.  The  sound  of  retreating 
footsteps  left  her  again  in  solitude. 


AFTER  Laura  had  been  for  some  time  at  school, 
she  made  the  discovery  that  there  were  two  per- 
sons who  had  won,  by  a  most  judicious  course  of 
kind  treatment,  both  her  confidence  and  love. 
These  were  Miss  Merton  and  Mary  Hale.  One 
day.  Miss  Merton  told  her  that  she  should  be  hap- 
py to  see  her  in  her  room,  after  tea.  Though  this 
was  said  with  a  winning  smile,  yet  it  brought  the 


•  THE    CLOUDY    MOKMNG.  215 

color  to  Laura's  cheek,  and  made  her  heart  beat 
like  that  of  a  little  culprit.  All  day  long,  she 
worried  herself  with  the  most  anxious  and  foolish 
conjectures  about  the  object  of  this  private  inter- 
view, and  at  the  appointed  time,  she  knocked 
tremblingly  at  Miss  Merton's  door. 

"  Come  in,  my  dear,"  said  she,  looking  up  from 
a  table  covered  with  papers.  "  I  am  very  busy 
just  now,  and  should  be  glad  of  a  little  of  your 
assistance.  Will  you  look  over  a  few  of  these 
compositions?  Where  you  find  three  words  mis- 
spelt, put  a  cross,  and  place  it  in  that  pile.  They 
worked  awhile  in  silence,  and  at  length,  the  busi- 
ness over,  Miss  Merton  closed  her  desk,  drew  her 
chair  nearer  the  fire,  and  placed  an  ottoman  at 
her  feet  for  Laura. 

"  Laura,"  said  she,  playfully  weaving  her  fingers 
through  Laura's  glossy  ringlets,  "  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken in  your  character,  you  are  one  who  likes 
plain  speaking  ;  you  can  take  a  reproof  for  a  fault 
without  its  being  so  spiced  with  flattery  as  to  lose 
its  taste." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  can,"  said  Laura,  a  little 
proudly.  "  You,  you,  —  I  was  going  to  say,  — 
•hat  you  know  me  better  than  most  people"  —  and 
aer  voice  slightly  trembled. 

"  I  thought  I  was  right,  Laura.  Now  I  have  no 
seriout,  fault  to  find,  but  I  have  been  wishing  for 
some  time  to  speak  with  you  about  j  our  studies." 


216  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

Laura's  brow  clouded.  A  deep  blush  crimsoned 
her  cheek.  "  Miss  Merton,"  said  she,  hesitatingly, 
"I  cannot  study  as  the  other  girls  do;  they  have 
better  talents  than  I  have." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  I  was  going  to  speak  of, 
my  dear.  A  great  many  people  in  this  world 
overrate  their  talents ;  you,  I  am  convinced,  under- 
rate yours." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not,  Miss  Merton,"  and  the  tears 
were  fairly  -started. 

"  I  think  you  do.  You  set  it  down  at  the  out- 
set, that  you  must  fail  in  everything  you  under- 
take ;  and  you  expect,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  to 
have  the  worst  recitation  in  the  class.  Your  mind 
never  will  act  vigorously  under  such  a  pressure. 
A  sure  way  of  obtaining  a  defeat  is  to  prepare  for 
one.  Your  natural  abilities  are  good,  and  you 
may  take  a  stand  with  any  girl  in  school,  if  you 
would  only  think  so.  You  can  accomplish  any- 
thing which  you  will  determine  to  accomplish." 

"  I  can  never  make  a  scholar ;  my  teachers  al- 
ways said  so,  and  father  and  mother  think  so ; " 
and  Laura  sighed  deeply. 

"  Then  show  them  all,  my  dear,  that  they  are 
mistaken.  Remember,  '  Those  who  would  shoot 
high,  must  aim  at  the  sun.'  I  wish  to  put  you  into 
the  first  class  of  Intellectual  Philosophy,  ^sow. 
will  you  promise  me  to  feel  that  you  can  do  as  well 
u  the  others,  and  give  the  experiment  a  fair  trial?  * 


THE    CLOUDY    MORNING.  217 

Laura  remained  lost  in  thought  for  a  few  min- 
utes. Such  words  fell  like  the  voice  of  a  trumpet 
on  her  ear.  Ambition  started  at  the  sound!  Her 
face  lighted  up  with  an  expression  full  of  meaning, 
and  her  eye  sparkled  with  an  honest  pride  that 
had  long  been  a  stranger  to  it :  "  /  will  try"  said 
she,  drawing  herself  to  her  full  height,  and  stand- 
ing erect  for  a  moment,  as  if  breathing  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  mountains. 

"  That  is  all  I  ask,  and  it  is  the  signal  of  vic- 
tory ! "  said  Miss  Merton,  affectionately  kissing  her 
cheek.  Laura,  forgetting  all  difference  of  station, 
threw  her  arms  around  her  teacher's  neck,  and  re- 
turned the  caress  ten-fold.  From  this  moment 
might  have  been  dated  a  new  era  in  her  intellectual 
world.  She  determined  to  deserve  the  first  words 
of  praise  which  she  had  ever  heard ;  and  with  a 
heart  made  light  by  so  slight  an  attention,  her 
mind  took  off  its  garment  of  sackcloth.  Hitherto, 
her  life  had  all  been  one  of  feeling ;  now  she  be- 
gan to  think,  to  reason.  She  seemed  like  a  new 
creature ;  she  surprised  herself  and  every  one  else ; 
her  self-respect  daily  increased,  and  her  whole 
manner  showed  the  change.  Yet  there  were 
rocks,  and  snares,  and  pit-falls  in  her  new  path. 
One  day  Miss  Merton  entered  the  school-room, 
and  found  her  sitting  alone,  apparently  think- 
ing very  intently  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
19 


218  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

grate.  "  Why,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  she,  "  what  a 
'  brown  study  ! '  Do  you  find  any  familiar  face  in 
the  coals  ?  "Why  are  you  here  in  play-time  ?  '  A 
penny  for  your  thoughts.'  " 

"  They  are  not  worth  a  penny,"  said  Laura,  col- 
oring, and  taking  up  her  book. 

"  '  Mind  is  that  part  of  our  being  which  thinks, 
wills,  remembers,  and  reasons'  —  is  that  what  puz- 
zles you  so,  Laura  ?  " 

"O,  no  —  but  —  " 

"What?" 

"Why,  I  really  don't  know,  exactly,  what  I 
want  to  say.  But  after  I  have  been  studying,  I 
get  to  thinking,  and  thinking,  and  thinking,  and 
everything  seems  so  strange  and  all  mixed  up." 

"  What  is  mixed  up,  child  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  will  think  me  silly ;  if  I  were 
more  like  other  girls,  I  could  understand  better ; 
but  I  do  n't  see  what  matter  is,  nor  what  mind  is. 
I  was  just  thinking  there  is  no  world.  —  Here  is 
the  fire  —  what  is  it,  a  picture  on  the  retina  of  the 
eye  ?  I  am  all  in  a  puzzle.  What  are  you  ?  and 
What  am  I  ?  It  is  confused  and  strange ;  I  feel 
sometimes  as  if  there  were  an  iron  chain  around 
me,  —  the  farther  I  go,  the  more  tightly  it  is 
drawn.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  make  a  scholar, 
until  this  is  in  some  way  broken." 

"  That  is  an  iron  chain,  my  child,  whose  pressure 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  219 

we  all  feel  when  we  attempt  to  cross  the  boundaries 
of  human  knowledge.  This  union  of  mind  and 
matter  —  this  '  What  am  I?'  is  a  mystery,  which, 
you  can  never  solve  here.  In  another  state  of  being, 
— in  heaven,  Laura,  if  we  get  there,  —  we  can 
explore  the  whole  ocean  of  truth  without  feeling 
these  shackles.  Do  not  make  yourself  unhappy 
because  you  do  not  know  what  God  did  not  design 
that  you  should  know,  here.  You  are  by  no  means 
singular  in  these  thoughts  and  feelings ;  all  hare 
them  when  they  first  wake  to  a  real  consciousness 
of  existence." 

"  Well,  —  but  Miss  Merton,"  said  Laura,  who 
having  once  opened  her  heart  seemed  determined 
to  bring  forth  all  that  had  been  troubling  her 
there,  "  I  do  not  know  what  good  it  does  to  study. 
Here  we  spend  day  after  day,  year  after  year  learn- 
ing books  ;  at  last  we  must  die  and  be  buried  up, 
and  there  is  the  end  of  it ;  and  what  good  has  it 
all  done  us  ?  " 

"  Is  that  the  end  of  all  things,  Laura  ?  " 

"Well,  but  in  heaven  I  thought  they  sung 
psalms,  and  played  on  golden  harps.  I  never 
thought  much  else  about  it.  We  could  sing  aa 
well  without  studying  all  this  Philosophy  and 
Algebra — " 

"Laura!  Laura  Clay!  where  are  you?"  shouted 
a  pleasant  voice  in  the  entry.  "  Oh,  here,  I  pro- 


220  THE    CLOUDY    MORNIXG. 

test,  in  the  school-room,  over  your  books,  when  we 
are  all  at  play.  We  want  you  to  see  our  snow- 
house  ;  come,  they  sent  me  for  you  ! " 

"  You  had  better  go,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Mer- 
ton,  gently  taking  her  book  from  her  hand. 


TWILIGHT  is  the  hour  sacred  to  thought.  It  was 
the  hour  our  night-shade  loved ;  the  one  in  which 
she  often  stole  away  to  be  alone  in  her  room,  or 
with  her  friend  Mary  Hale.  Once,  she  was  sitting 
at  her  window  watching  the  beautiful  sunset  clouds, 
with  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Dear  Laura,"  said  Mary,  seating  herself  by 
her,  "  what  is  the  matter  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  foolish  girl,  Mary,  and  I  am  ashamed 
of  myself;  but  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  was 
sitting  here  looking  out,  and  before  I  knew  it 
almost,  I  was  thinking  of  home  and  had  imagined 
that  father  and  Helen  were  dead.  I  was  in  our 
large  drawing-room ;  it  was  dark ;  on  one  table 
there  was  a  long  coffin  and  on  another  there  a 
shorter  one.  Mother,  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
pale  as  marble,  called  me  to  come  and  give  the 
last  kiss  to  the  dead.  A  rough  man  was  standing 
near  me ;  as  soon  as  I  had  kissed  one,  he  shut 
down  the  lid  and  was  screwing  it  down  —  I  could 
not  help  crying,!  wish  that  I  could  hear  from  home." 
''  Why,  Laura  !  are  you  superstitious  ?  " 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  221 

"No,  I  am  not." 

"  Well,  I  never  saw  a  girl  so  ingenious  in 
making  herself  miserable  in  my  life." 

"  Do  n't  you  ever  get  thinking  so,  Mary  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  dear  Laura ;  I  should  think  it  very 
wrong  to  allow  myself  to  do  so.  It  is  distrusting 
the  watchful  love  of  God.  I  believe  Him  when  he 
tells  me,  that  He  will  not  suffer  us  to  be  tempted 
above  what  we  are  able  to  bear ;  '  As  your  day  is, 
BO  shall  your  strength  be ! '  And  if  I  did  not,  a 
little  observation  as  to  how  things  really  go  in  this 
world,  would  prevent  my  being  so  unmercifully 
wretched,  —  for  it  has  passed  into  a  proverb  that 
the  evils  we  most  dread  never  come,  while  those 
we  least  think  of  are  the  ones  at  hand.  Why 
should  we  embitter  a  short  life  with  imaginary 
evils  ?  We  need  all  the  energy  of  feeling  which 
we  throw  away  so,  to  meet  the  real  calls  of  life." 

"  Well,  it  is  my  nature,  and  I  cannot  help  it," 
sighed  Laura. 

"  Cannot  help  it !  Will  you  allow  that  you 
have  no  power  over  your  thoughts  ?  " 

"  No,  but  — " 

"  But,  dear  Laura,  you  have  not  the  resolution 
to  be  happy ;  with  everything  in  the  world  to  make 
you  so,  you  still  prefer  the  excitement  of  these 
melancholy  feelings;  you  voluntarily  choose  the 
bitter  waters." 

19* 


THE    CLOUDY    MORNING. 

"  Why,  Mary,  it  is  my  nature.  Tou  know 
nothing  at  all  of  what  such  a  person  as  I,  has 
to  suffer.  Excepting  my  love  for  you,  —  and  I 
do  love  you  dearly,  Mary,  —  life  seems  to  me  a 
dreary  waste.  I  am  every  hour  oppressed  with 
the  feeling  that  it  is  slipping  away.  I  put  my 
head  upon  my  pillow,  not  for  pleasant  dreams,  but 
to  think,  think,  think  that  I  am  one  day  nearer  the 
grave  and  the  judgment.  You  cannot  know  any- 
thing of  this,  Mary.  Life  has  been  to  you,  one 
long  summer-day  — 

'  And  all  that  you  wish,  and  all  that  you  love, 
Come  smiling  around  your  sunny  way ! ' " 

"  I  have  seen  trouble,"  said  Mary,  a  shade  pass- 
ing over  her  sweet  face,  as  she  thought  of  that 
hour  in  the  early  morning  of  her  life  which  left 
her  motherless  ;  "  and  yet  I  have  been  very  happy 
thus  far.  In  '  to-day'  I  always  find  something  to 
enjoy,  and  I  always  look  for  a  bright  to-morrow. 
I  feel  that  I  shall  be  taken  care  of,  for  the  young 
ravens  and  the  lilies  are,  and  why  should  not  I  be? 
This  is  a  pleasant  world,  and  it  seems  to  me  un- 
grateful not  to  enjoy  it.  If  I  lose  one  friend,  some 
one  else  comes  in  to  take  her  place.  If  I  am  dis- 
appointed in  one  thing,  another,  as  pleasant,  turn? 
up." 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  223 

"  Well,  Mary,  everybody  loves  you.  I  wonder 
why  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know,  I  am  sure  ;  I  cannot  tell.  I 
never  thought  whether  they  did  or  not.  But  it 
may  be,  as  the  girl  in  the  story  said,  because  I 
love  everybody,  —  it  seems  to  me  I  do." 

"  So  do  I,  Mary,  every  one  who  loves  me  ;  but 
those  are  very;  very  few.  I  can  count  them  all 
over  on  three  fingers." 

"  Well,  Laura,  one  trouble  with  you  is  in  your 
manner.  You  feel  that  those  you  meet  will  of 
course  not  like  you,  and  so  you  draw  back,  and 
your  manner  seems  to  say,  '  I  will  be  beforehand 
with  you,  and  show  you  that  I  do  n't  care  for  you.' 
This  will  not  make  friends." 

"  Do  you  always  expect  people  to  like  you  ?  " 

"  I  never,  somehow,  think  anything  about  it," 
said  Mary,  laughing,  "  but  it  so  happens  that  I  al- 
most always  find  something  to  like  in  every  one." 

"  Well,  you  are  so  social  and  open-hearted  and 
kind,  no  one  can  help  loving  you,  Mary." 

"  I  do  n't  know  about  that ;  but  I  am  sure,  Lau- 
ra, if  you  would  be  more  social  and  open,  you 
would  be  much  happier.  You  are  so  reserved; 
you  keep  your  real  feelings  so  much  to  yourself, 
that  it  seems  to  say  to  others,  '  Keep  your  dis- 
tance ;  I  do  not  wish  to  be  meddled  with."  Now, 
girls  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  force  their  friend- 


224  THE    CLOUDY    MORNING. 

ship  upon  any  one,  particularly  if  she  stands  aloof, 
and  seems  to  say, '  I  do  not  care  for  it.'  It  touches 
their  pride  and  self-respect,  — '  I  will  give  as  good 
as  I  receive,'  they  say.  Now,  a  hundred  times  I 
have  known  the  girls  to  say  things  which  hurt 
your  feelings  very  much ;  yet,  you  looked  so  per- 
fectly calm  and  composed,  they  thought  of  course 
that  you  did  not  mind  it  at  all.  This  provokes 
them  to  repeat  the  attack,  and  all  the  time  they 
think  they  are  striking  on  granite.  O,  if  you 
would  only  be  honest,  and  show  what  you  feel — • 
let  people  know  you  as  I  do —  they  could  not  help 
loving  you  as  I  do,  dear  Laura." 

Laura  shook  her  head,  and  sighed  deeply.  "  I 
cannot  do  it,  Mary.  When  my  heart  is  full  al- 
most to  bursting  with  deep,  intense  feeling,  I  can- 
not speak,  —  I  cannot  explain ;  they  would  not 
understand  me,  if  I  did ;  they  would  not  like  me, 
if  I  could.  It  is  my  fate  ;  I  was  born  so  ;  I  am 
an  unfortunate  child;  my  mother  would  tell  you 
so." 

"  There  —  there  it  is  again,"  said  Mary,  kissing 
the  tears  from  Laura's  eyes.  "  Xow,  why  will 
you  cherish  such  fancies  ?  Why,  darling,  you  are 
overshadowing  the  brightest  part  of  your  life. 
You  can,  you  must,  you  ought  to  be  happy  ;  you 
have  everything  in  life  to  make  you  so.  Laura, 
it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  mother ;  mine  is  dead." 


THE    CLOT  DT   MORNING.  225 

She  paused  a  moment.  "  And  you  have  a  great 
many  other  friends  to  love  you.  It  was  but.  yes- 
terday I  heard  two  of  the  girls  talking  about  you." 

"What  did  they  say  ?"  inquired  Laura,  very 
quickly,  for  she  was  remarkably  anxious  always 
to  know  just  what  was  said  of  her. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  One  said,  '  There  is  that  Miss 
Clay,  —  she  always  looks  just  so,  sober  as  the 
grave,  as  if  she  had  not  a  friend  in  the  wide 
world.'  '  Not  always,'  said  the  other ;  '  sometimes 
she  brightens  up  wonderfully.'  '  That  may  be,' 
was  the  reply,  '  but  it  is  like  the  flash  of  lightning 
in  a  dark  night,  —  it  makes  everything  ten  times 
blacker  for  it ;  and  when  you  speak  to  her,  she  al- 
ways answers  in  just  the  same  tone,  whether  it  is 
about  the  Bible,  or  a  shuttlecock.  There  is  no 
sunshine  in  her  presence ;  it  is  like  going  into  the 
frigid  zone.  I  could  never  love  such  a  girl.' 
Dear  Laura,  I  tell  you  this  only  to  convince  you 
that  you  yourself  are  your  worst  enemy.  They 
could  not  help  loving  you,  if  you  would  act  out 
your  own  heart,  and  be  happy  among  them." 

Not  long  after  this,  there  was  a  great  noise  one 
morning  in  the  school-room.  The  girls  were  all 
talking  together  in  loud  voices,  — '  I  will  have 
this,  and  you  that.'  '  No,  I  want  that,  and  you 
may  have  this.'  There  was  a  perfect  Babel  for  a 
little  time,  until  the  various  characters  in  a  tableau 


226  THE    CLOUDY   MORNIXQ. 

which  was  to  come  off  at  Christmas,  had  been  de- 
cided upon.  "  Here  is  Laura  Clay,"  exclaimed 
one  at  length,  "  standing  as  mute  as  a  hearth-stone. 
What  shall  she  be  ?  "  Some  said  one  thing,  and 
some  said  another. 

"  0  do  not  give  me  anything,"  said  Laura.  "  I 
could  not  act,  if  you  did ;  I  should  spoil  the  whole. 
Pray  do  not  give  me  anything." 

"  There,"  said  one,  "  she  is  vexed  because  you 
did  not  ask  her  before,  —  that's  the  reason."  Lau- 
ra gave  Mary  a  look,  which  said,  '  Did  not  I  tell 
you  so  ?  You  see  I  am  right ;  they  cannot  under- 
stand me.'  Laura  might  have  read  Mary's  reply, 
'  But  you  did  not  say  the  right  thing.' 

"  No,  no,"  said  another,  who  observed  that  Lau- 
ra was  moving  away  to  another  part  of  the  room, 
which  she  did  to  hide  her  tears,  "  she  does  not  get 
vexed,  but  she  is  in  her  heroics  and  moral  sublim- 
ities. She  loves  dearly  to  make  a  great  heroine 
of  herself.  I  suppose  now  she  will  go  to  her 
room,  and  think  she  is  the  greatest  martyr  since 
Nero's  time." 

"  You  to  be  Nero  ?  "  said  a  child,  looking  up 
from  a  pile  of  engravings,  "  Who  may  I  be  ?  " 

"  Me,  Nero  ?  No,  I  hope  not.  I  was  talking 
of  the  poor,  persecuted  Miss  Clay." 

"  Jane  —  Jane,  I  would  not,"  said  Mary  Hale. 
u  You  do  not  understand  Laura,  There  ! "  said 


THE    CLOUDY    MORNING.  227 

she,  as  the  door  closed  upon  th'e  retreating  girl, 
"  You  have  wounded  her  more  than  you  can  ima- 
gine. She  is  the  most  sensitive  creature  I  ever 
knew." 

"  "Well,  why  does  she  behave  so  strangely,  then  ? 
"Why  could  not  she  join  our  play,  and  appear  at 
least  interested  in  somebody  besides  herself? 
How  can  she  expect  us  to  like  her,  when  she  doss 
so,  and  does  not  seem  to  care  a  pin  for  us  ?  Feel- 
ings ?  I  am  sorry  if  I  hurt  them,  but  why  does 
not  she  let  us  see  sometimes,  that  she  has  feelings. 
I  am  sure  it  is  not  my  fault." 


LAUKA  was  again  sitting  alone  with  Miss  Mer- 
ton.  It  was  only  a  short  time  before  her  leaving 
school.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  seemed  to  have 
sad  thoughts. 

"  You  must  write  often  to  me,  Laura,"  said  Miss 
Merton. 

"  O  yes,  I  am  very  sure  that  I  shall ;  it  will  be 
almost  the  only  pleasant  thing  left  for  me  to  do, 
then.  How  quickly  these  last  happy  years  have 
gone  !  They  have  been  to  me  the  happiest  in  all 
my  life  ;  and  now  I  must  leave  you,  Miss  Merton, 
and  Mary,"  and  her  voice  trembled,  and  her  lip 
quivered.  She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"But,  my  dear  Laura,  you  are  going  back  to 


228  THE    CLOUDY    MORNING. 

your  home, —  to  your  father  and  mother  and  sis- 
ter. That  home  must  be  made  brighter  and  hap- 
pier by  your  return." 

"O,  Miss  Merton,"  Laura  would  have  said,  had 
she  not  felt  it  too  much  to  speak,  "  I  can  never 
make  that  home  happy.  If  I  thought  I  could,  my 
heart  would  leap  for  joy."  There  was  a  pause,  and 
Laura  said,  "  What  is  there  now  worth  living  for? 
Life  is  to  me  a  bitter  drug,  —  I  mean,  when  I  am 
away  from  you,  Miss  Merton ;  there  will  be  no 

one  to understand  me."  She  was  about  to 

add,  '  no  one  to  love  me,'  but  she  stopped,  startled 
to  find  that  she  had  almost  said  the  very  thing 
which  she  most  feared  to  say.  "What  have  I  to 
do,  —  what  .object  in  life?  I  have  no  school,  no 
studies.  It  is,  get  up  in  the  morning,  eat,  drink, 
sew,  and  sleep  again." 

"  My  dear  Laura,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak 
so ;  there  is  a  great  deal  for  you  to  do  in  this 
world.  You  must  be  useful  here,  —  you  must 
make  some  one  better  and  happier  by  what  you 
do,  and  by  what  you  are.  If  you  have  the  wish 
to  do  this,  strong  in  your  heart,  you  will  easily  find 
the  way  to  do  it.  It  is  for  this  purpose  you  have 
been  cultivating  yourself,  —  that  you  may  be  fitted 
for  usefulness.  You  must  keep  before  you  the 
highest  standard  of  perfection,  and  aim  daily  to 
make  your  own  character  nearer  and  nearer  like  it 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  229 

Those  around  you  must  be  made  better  for  your 
influence.  You  have  enough,  and  more  than 
enough,  to  do." 

"Then,"  said  Laura,  upon  whom  this  speech 
had  evidently  made  little  impression,  "  when  away 
from  you  both,  what  shall  I  do  with  my  sad  and 
lonely  hours  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  have  any  such  hours,  Laura." 

*  I  cannot  help  it,  Miss  Merton,  indeed  I  cannot. 
They  come  over  me  like  a  spell  in  my  gayest 
moods,  —  like  sudden  night  at  noonday.  Some- 
times—  often,  when  I  think  I  am  happy,  all  at 
once  my  heart  seems  to  become  heavy  as  lead.  I 
want  to  go  away  alone  and  weep,  I  cannot  tell 
why,  either." 

Mother !  want  of  early  care  has  done  this  for 
your  child. 

"  Laura,"  said  Miss  Merton,  after  a  few  minutes' 
silence,  "  solitude  is  a  bad  friend  for  you,  and  one 
which  you  must  shun.  Throw  yourself  as  much 
as  you  can  into  society ;  be  with  those  who  are 
around  you;  do  something  for  them.  Discipline 
your  thoughts  perseveringly  to  dwell  upon  others, 
and  not  on  yourself.  Do  this  with  real  energy  and 
decision  of  character.  I  would  not  give  this  ad- 
vice to  a  weak-minded  girl,  but  you  are  capable  of 
the  effort.  Determine  to  li ve  happily,  and  to  some 
20 


230  THE    CLOUDY   MORNING. 

purpose,  and  not  waste  your  life,  because  you  are 
too  indolent  to  improve  it." 

"  But,  dear  Miss  Merton,  I  do  have  such  lonely 
hours.  You  cannot  know  how  at  times  my  heart 
pines  for  something  to  love,  and  that  would  love 
me,  and  how  then  this  world  seems  to  me  almost  a 
desert." 

"  Lam%a,  we  can  make  our  own  deserts,  an<5 
walk  in  them,  if  we  choose." 

"  But,  I  do  not  choose,  M'jss  Merton.  I  cannot 
help  it.  My  path  has  been  marked  out  here,  — 
right  here,  and  nowhere  else,  —  this  is  my  nature." 

"  Nature,  again,  Laura.  Do  you  know  upon 
whom  you  throw  the  blame,  when  you  charge  it 
upon  your  nature?" 

"  But  how  can  I  help  it  ?  I  was  born  so.  To 
long  forever  for  friends,  and  never  find  them ;  or, 
if  I  do,  to  love  them  with  all  my  heart,  and  then 
feel  that  they  do  not  love  me  as  much,  and  that 
they  cannot.  Sometimes,  even  when  I  am  happy, 
and  always  when  I  am  sad,  I  feel  such  a  void 
here,  —  I  seek  for  sympathy,  —  I  do  not  find  it, 
and  my  heart  aches." 

"  Laura,  you  say  that  you  love  Mary  and  my- 
self. You  know  and  feel  that  we  love  you.  Now 
tell  me,  honestly,  since  you  have  known  us,  has 
this  filled  that  void  in  your  heart  ?  Has  it  sup- 
plied that  craving  for  a  deeper  sympalhy  ?" 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  231 

Laura  confessed  that  it  had  not. 

"  Neither  can  it  do  so,  nor  can  any  other  earthly 
love,  my  child.  You  may  go  this  world  over,  and 
with  your  serious,  reflecting  nature,  you  will  never 
find  the  friend  to  satisfy  the  wants  of  your  souL 
You  must  go  to  a  different,  a  higher,  purer  foun- 
tain, before  you  will  ever  feel  pure  happiness." 

Laura  did  not  raise  her  eyes;  she  replied  only 
by  a  shake  of  the  head.  Miss  Merton,  perceiving 
the  expression,  forbore  to  press  the  point;  but 
eaid  to  her  soon  after,  as  she  was  leaving  the  room, 
—  "I 've  something  more  to  tell  you,  Laura,  but  I 
will  defer  it  until  1  write  to  you.  Good-night  — 
pleasant  dreams  to  you." 


LAURA  left  school  with  many  tears,  and  return- 
ed with  a  heavy  heart  to  her  not  very  attractive 
home.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  live  con- 
tentedly, forever,  with  her  teacher.  Not  long  after 
her  return  she  received  a  long,  affectionate  letter 
from  Miss  Merton,  the  object  of  which  was  to  urge 
her  again  to  seek  happiness  at  that  only  source 
where  it  could  be  found.  A  short  extract  from 
this  letter  follows  : — 

"  Here  am  I,  my  dear  Laura,  writing  in  my 
little  study.  The  room  you  know  well,  for  I  be- 
lieve you  learned  to  love  it  almost  as  much  as  I  do, 


2«i2  THE    CLOUDY    MORNING. 

while  you  were  with  me.  I  have  been  thinking  of 
you  —  of  the  last  evening  that  you  spent  here — 
of  the  expression  of  your  countenance  —  of  the 
tone  of  voice  in  which  you  said  to  me,  '  There  is  a 
void  in  my  heai't.'  I  wish  I  could  make  you  feel 
as  I  do,  that  there  is  but  one  Friend  who  can  fill 
this  void;  —  that  which  you  need  to  satisfy  the 
wants  of  your  soul  is  to  love  your  Saviour  with  all 
your  soul.  This  void  will  never  be  filled  until  you 
come  and  link  your  heart  to  His.  Then,  all  your 
plans  and  purposes  will  be  changed.  Your  vision 
will  be  no  longer  bounded  by  the  dark  and  narrow 
grave  ;  it  will  stretch  on  into  a  region  of  unclouded 
light,  where  dwell  those  blessed  ones  '  who  die  in 
the  Lord.'  And  for  this  world,  you  have  enough 
and  more  than  enough,  to  do — to  obey  your  Saviour 
—  to  follow  where  he  leads  —  to  'go  about  doing 
good,'  as  he  did,  and  to  prepare  yourself,  and  all 
around  you,  to  meet  Him  in  heaven.  Laura,  this 
Friend  is  calling  you,  and  you  are  searching  for 
Him,  though  you  do  not  know  it.  That  you  may 
hear  His  voice,  and  see  His  face,  and  one  day  be 
*  satisfied'  with  '  His  likeness,'  is  the  earnest  prayer 
of  one  who  remains, 

Very  affectionately,  Yours. 

L.  MERTON." 

The  remainder  of  Laura's  history  is,  for  the  most 
part,  unwritten.  But  another  short  extract  from 
a  letter  which  she  wrote  to  her  friend,  Mary  Hale, 
about  a  year  after  her  return  from  school,  will  show 
that,  though  now  fast  coming  to  womanhood,  yet 
her  position  at  home  was  not  essentially  different 


THE    CLOUDY   MORNING.  233 

from  what  it  had  been  in  her  childhood.  She  was 
still  almost  a  stranger  to  her  parents ;  their  inter- 
course with  her  was  such  as  to  forbid  anything  like 
intimacy  between  them.  They  never  made  the 
attempt  to  win  her  confidence.  They  never  made 
a  friend  of  her.  They  did  not  know  how  to  do 
it.  They  had  not  studied  her  character  in  her 
early  years,  and  now  it  was  too  late.  She  writes 
to  her  friend,  Mary,  as  follows :  — 

"  You  are  happy,  Mary,  because  you  are  a  Chris- 
tian. I  do  not  doubt  it ;  I,  too,  love  my  Bible,  — 
I  love  my  Sabbaths,  and  the  hour  of  secret  prayer 
as  I  never  used  to.  Some  of  the  happiest  hours  I 
know  are  spent  in  my  closet ;  and  sometimes  my 
heart  trembles  with  joy  at  the  thought  that,  per- 
haps, even  I  am  a  child  of  God.  I  wish  I  could 
come  out  openly  and  say  to  the  world,  '  As  for  me, 
I  will  serve  the  Lord.'  Then,  why  do  I  not  ?  you 
ask.  Because,  Mary,  I  do  not  dare  to  do  it  I 
have  not  the  courage  to  break  the  thing  to  my  pa- 
rents. Would  they  oppose  it  ?  0  no  !  They  are 
both  of  them  Christians.  I  dare  say  it  would 
make  them  happy.  But  they  have  never  in  all 
my  life  taken  me  away  alone,  and  gently  encour- 
aged me  to  speak  to  them  of  my  religious  feelings 
—  not  once.  I  cannot  tell  why  it  is,  but  I  am 
somehow  ashamed  to  let  them  know  how  deeply  I 
do  feel  on  these  matters.  My  father  prays  night 
and  morning  at  the  family  altar,  that  we  may  be- 
come the  children  of  God ;  but  then  he  never 
speaks  to  me  about  it,  and  my  heart  shrinks  from 
20* 


234  THE   CLOUDY  MORNING. 

going  to  him,  and  telling  him  all  I  feel.  I  cannot 
get  the  courage.  I  cannot  first  break  the  ice. 
These  feelings  are  so  sacred,  I  cannot  voluntarily 
expose  them.  I  am  sometimes  very  unhappy 
about  it,  Mary.  I  wish  that,  like  you,  I  were  a 
professing  Christian.  But  you  see  how  it  is. 
Good  night. 

Your  friend, 

LATJRA." 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS, 


A  PLAIN  TALK  WITH  GIRLS  WHO  "  LIVE  OUT,"  IN 
THE  CITY. 


THE    START. 

ONE  pleasant  Monday  morning,  Deacon  Jones, 
the  farmer,  his  wife,  his  daughter  Ruth,  and  some 
three  or  four  boys,  were  seen  standing  in  the  yard; 
rather,  the  elderly  members  of  the  group  were 
standing,  —  the  boys  were  pitching  themselves 
over  the  low  fence,  and  trying  to  see  who  could 
walk  the  farthest  on  his  head.  From  between 
their  hands  they  cast  many  glances  up  the  road, 
each  one  being  anxious  to  spy  out  first  the  old 
stage-coach.  The  farmer  stood  whittling  a  lilac 
bush. 

"  You  will  remember  what  I  tell  you  about  dres- 
sing warm  in  cold  weather,  Ruth,"  said  her  moth- 
er. "  You  must  not  think  you  can  be  careless  be- 
cause you  are  living  in  a  city.  Many  a  poor  girl 
has  caught  her  death,  that  way." 


236  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

"  I  will  be  careful,  mother,  I  promise  you,"  said 
Ruth. 

"  You  must  write  often,  Ruth,"  said  the  farmer. 
"  "We  shall  want  to  know  all  how  you  get  on.  If 
you  are  steady  and  industrious,  you  wont  have  to 
live  out  always.  As  soon  as  these  youngsters  are 
a  little  older,  we  can  get  along  and  keep  you  at 
home,  I  hope." 

"  Coming,  coming,  coming ! "  shouted  the  boys, 
all  together. 

"  Hush,  boys  ;  do  n't  be  so  noisy,"  said  their  fa- 
ther, clearing  his  throat.  "  "Well,  good  bye,  my 
child ;  keep  up  good  heart.  May  God  bless  you, 
and  keep  you  from  the  snares  of  that  great  city." 
He  kissed  her  fast-falling  tears. 

'<  Good  bye,  mother ; "  and  saying  this,  she 
threw  both  arms  about  her  mother's  neck. 

"  I  can  carry  Ruth's  trunk,  Mr.  Driver ;  let 
me,"  said  little  John. 

"  No,  you  can't  begin  to ;  let  it  alone,  I  tell  you," 
said  George,  the  eldest.  "  I  can  carry  it  in  one 
hand."  Then  John  began  to  cry. 

"  You  sha'n't  any  of  you  carry  it,  if  you  quarrel. 
I'll  carry  it  myself,"  said  Mr.  Driver.  In  this  up- 
roar, the  boys  almost  forgot  to  bid  Ruth  good  bye. 

"Areyow  there,  Lucy?"  said  the  farmer,  look- 
ing in  at  the  stage  window." 

"  I  am  here,  large  as  life,"  said  Lucy.     "  Come, 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIXS.  237 

Ruth  ;  if  you  are  going  to  Boston,  you  must  leave 
your  baby-skin  at  home." 

Ruth  looked  up,  and  tried  to  smile,  as  she  took 
her  seat  by  her  cousin.  At  the  first  glance,  she 
saw  how  much  Lucy  was  dressed,  and  a  moment- 
ary feeling  of  shame  at  her  own  simple  attire, 
came  over  her.  Her  father  also  noticed  it ;  but 
his  good  sense  told  him  that  Ruth  had  the  advan- 
tage. 

Lucy  was  pretty,  had  bright  black  eyes,  with 
good  features.  She  had  this  day  curled  her  hair 
in  long  ringlets,  and  put  on  bows  and  la^s,  a  white 
veil,  and  light  kid  gloves,  and  also  wore  short 
sleeves,  —  all  this,  to  ride  in  a  duty  stage-coach, 
on  a  dusty  summer  day. 

Ruth's  hair  was  brushed  back  plainly  under  her 
simple  straw  bonnet,  and  she  wore  a  new  calico 
dress,  with  long  sleeves  and  cape  to  match,  and 
neat  cotton  gloves.  Her  countenance  was  ruddy 
and  good-humored.  She  need  not  have  felt 
ashamed  for  a  minute.  The  farmer  was  right  hi 
his  opinion  that  she  looked  much  the  better  of  the 
two. 

Mr.  Driver  cracked  his  whip  over  the  heads  of 
the  boys,  bringing  it  rather  nearer  Master  George's 
ears  than  was  strictly  agreeable,  —  and  he  was  re- 
warded by  a  thundering  word,  which,  however, 
did  not  make  noise  enough  to  reach  him. 


238  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

Our  two  adventurers  had  the  coach  all  to  them- 
selves, after  the  first  ten  miles,  and  talked  freely 
about  their  plans  and  prospects. 

"  My  father  says,  if  I  do  well,"  said  Ruth,  "  for 
a  year  or  two,  till  the  boys  get  able  to  earn  some- 
thing, that  I  shall  not  need  to  work  out  longer." 

"  I  need  not  now,  if  I  a'nt  a  mind  to,"  said 
Lucy ;  "  but  it  is  so  stupid  and  dull  here  in  the 
country,  I  am  glad  to  go.  Besides,  if  I  stay  at 
home,  I  can't  have  anything  to  dress  on.  I  have 
to  do  as  the  rest  of  them  do." 

"  I  do  gt  mind  that,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Well,  I  do.  '  Go  it  while  you  're  young,'  I 
say ;  '  when  you  're  old,  you  can't.' " 

Ruth  laughed ;  she  was  used  to  Lucy's  ways. 
u  You  wrote  to  Aunt  Baily,  and  told  her  we  should 
come  to-day,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy.  "  The  driver  knows  where 
she  lives.  I  feel  sort  of  strange  about  going  there, 
I  never  saw  her." 

"  I  do  n't  know  as  I  do  exactly,"  said  Ruth.  "  I 
have  heard  my  mother  talk  about  her  so  much, 
that  I  feel  acquainted  with  her.  I  suppose  we 
shall  not  have  to  stay  with  her  long." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Lucy.  "  We  can  have  as 
many  places  as  we  want.  Down  East  girls  are 
in  great  demand,  they  say,  and  they  will  give  al- 
most any  price  for  them." 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  239 

The  girls  had  so  much  to  talk  about,  that  all  the 
beautiful  places  through  which  their  road  lay, 
passed  unnoticed.  The  deep,  dark  woods,  the  bold 
rocks,  the  picturesque  waterfall,  the  tumbling 
brook,  the  pretty  farm-houses,  and  the  honey- 
suckles, and  violets,  and  birds,  —  these  were  coun- 
try sights,  and  they  had  seen  them  all  their  lives, 
and  thought  them  scarcely  worth  the  minding, 
now  they  were  on  their  way  to  Boston. 


II. 


THE   ARRIVAL. 

DUSTY  and  tired,  — just  on  the  edge  of  evening, 
our  travellers  entered  Washington  street.  It  fully 
answered  all  their  expectations.  Carts  and  coaches, 
and  cabs  and  omnibuses,  rattled  by  them;  water- 
carriers  were  laying  the  dust  in  the  streets  ;  men, 
women  and  children  thronged  the  side-walks.  This 
was  quite  a  new  world. 

"I  know  I  never  shall  like  it,"  said  Ruth  ;  for  a 
feeling  of  homesickness  came  over  her,  as  she 
looked  from  the  window  on  these  strange  sights. 

"  O,  it  is  first-rate,"  said  Lucy,  fairly  clapping 
her  hands  ;  "  we  shall  have  grand  good  fun  here." 

Soon  they  turned  out  of  Washington  street, — 
and  winding  around  through  some  quiet  places, 
they  stopped  at  length  before  a  neatly  painted 
wooden  house.  They  entered,  by  a  side-gate,  into 
a  very  small  yard.  A  board  walk  led  to  the  door, 
and  a  lilac  tree,  in  full  bloom,  shaded  the  windows. 
Lucy  lifted  the  knocker, —  "  Girls,  is  it  you  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Baily  —  peeping  through  the  lilac  branches. 

u  Yes ;  here  we  are,"  said  Lucy.     Their  aunt 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS.  241 

met  them  cordially.    Tea  was  ready,  and  the  table 
all  set ;  so  they  knew  they  were  expected. 

"You  must  make  yourselves  at  home,  girls," 
said  aunt  Baily.  "  Put  away  your  things,  and 
get  ready  to  sit  down." 

Our  travellers  felt  a  little  strange. '  They  found 
they  had  no  correct  idea  of  their  aunt ;  indeed, 
many  years  had  passed  since  they  last  saw  her. 
She  appeared  older  than  they  had  expected  ;  and 
while  she  was  very  kind,  there  was  a  decided  tone 
and  manner  about  her,  different  from  what  they 
had  been  accustomed  to.  She  urged  them  to  eat, 
and  filled  their  plates  with  good  things,  and  asked 
many  questions  about '  the  home  folks ;'  questions 
which  were  easily  answered.  —  and  by  degrees  the 
strangeness  wore  off,  and  they  began  to  feel  ac- 
quainted with  her. 

After  tea,  it  seemed  very  natural  to  Ruth  to 
offer  to  help  her  aunt  in  her  work.  She  took 
the  towel  for  this  purpose,  but  her  aunt  declined, 
and  advised  them  both  to  go  to  bed.  "  They 
had  had  a  long  day's  ride  of  it,"  she  said.  "  The 
next  morning,  if  they  would  get  up  early,  she 
would  go  with  them  to  a  couple  of  places  which  she 
had  in  view.  One  was  a  place  where  a  girl  was 
wanted  for  a  chamber-maid,  and  the  other  where 
one  was  wanted  for  the  nursery.  She  would  see 
then  whether  they  would  suit  the  ladies." 
21 


242  THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

"  I  do  n't  believe  there  is  much  doubt  of  that," 
said  Lucy.  "I  hear  these  city-folks  are  glad 
enough  to  get  country  girls,  any  way." 

u  Not  if  they  do  n't  understand  their  business," 
said  aunt  Baily. 

Lucy  thought  her  aunt  was  rather  cross.  Ruth 
had  some  misgivings,  lest  after  all  she  should  not 
suit  city  people.  Another  attack  of  homesickness 
came  over  her,  and  she  sat  at  the  open  window 
quite  still,  looking  out  upon  the  houses. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  bed?  "  said  aunt  Baily, 
by  and  by. 

« I  should,"  said  Ruth ;  « I  feel  very  tired." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  will,  then,"  said  Lucy. 

Aunt  Baily  had  arranged  her  own  chamber  for 
the  girls,  and  she  herself  was  to  sleep  upon  the 
sofa-bed.  They  were  soon  alone. 

"  She  is  cross ! "  said  Lucy  in  a  half  whisper  to 
Ruth.  "  I  do  n't  like  her  at  all." 

u  I  do  n't  think  so,"  said  Ruth,  warmly.  "  I  think 
she  is  right  kind  to  us.  Look  !  this  is  her  room, 
and  she  has  turned  herself  out." 

"  What  a  hurry  she  is  in,  to  get  us  off  her  hands ! 
For  my  part,  I  mean  to  take  my  own  time.  I  do  n't 
want  to  go  to  a  place  to-morrow  ;  I  want  to  look 
around  and  see  Boston ;  —  what 's  the  use,  when 
we  've  come  to  see  the  world ! " 

Ruth  attempted  to  convince  her  that  this  was 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS.  243 

not  wise.  They  should  go  when  their  aunt  could 
best  spare  the  time  to  take  them,  —  and  must  go 
also  at  the  time  engaged,  lest  they  should  lose  their 
places.  Lucy  was  not  convinced,  and  went  to  bed 
in  ill-humor.  Ruth  extinguished  the  light,  and 
raising  the  white  curtain,  sat  down  by  the  open 
window.  In  the  house  opposite  to  where  she  sat, 
women  were  bustling  about  with  huge  frilled-caps, 
and  coarse  men  sat  puffing  away  at  their  pipes. 
Scarcely  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring.  Brick  before, 
stones  below,  and  a  narrow  strip  of  sky  above,  — 
she  could  scarcely  see  the  stars.  How  unlike  the 
scene  from  her  own  little  window  at  the  farm-house 
—  in  her  mind's  eye,  it  was  still  before  her,  —  the 
old  well-curb,  which  threw  such  huge  shadows  by 
moon-light,  —  the  large  green  yard,  with  the  old 
apple-tree,  in  the  corner,  now  bending  with  age  and 
splintered  by  storms.  She  loved  that  old  apple- 
tree.  With  tiny  fingers  she  had  made  nosegays 
from  its  blushing  blossoms  in  spring,  and  had  eaten 
its  golden  fruit  every  autumn,  as  far  back  as  she 
could  remember.  So  different  was  the  scene  from 
this  pent  up  city,  that  Ruth  began  to  weep,  she 
was  so  homesick. 

"  Why  do  n't  you  come  to  bed,"  said  Lucy,  petu- 
lantly, —  "I  would  n't  sit  there  all  night  looking 
at  the  dark!" 

"  I  'm  coming,"  said  Ruth  ;  but  here,  now,  was 


244  THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

a  difficulty.  This  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
had  ever  passed  a  night  away  from  home.  It  was 
her  habit  always  to  kneel  at  night,  to  pray.  She 
had  been  brought  up  to  do  this  from  very  early 
childhood.  How  could  she  manage  it  now,  with 
Lucy  there  talking  to  her,  and  ready  to  laugh  at 
her?  She  felt  very  anxious  to  do  so,  because  it 
would  seem  like  home,  and  her  feelings  were  much 
softened.  She  knelt,  hoping  to  catch  a  few  minutes 
unobserved.  When  she  was  partly  through  her 
prayer,  Lucy  raised  her  head. 

"  Ruth,  what  are  you  about,  you  silly  fuss  ;  why 
do  n't  you  come  ?  " 

"  Coming,"  said  Ruth. 

Now  she  hoped  to  finish  her  prayers  in  bed  ;  but 
when  her  head  was  fairly  on  her  pillow,  and  Lucy 
had  ceased  talking  nonsense  to  her,  she  was  much 
too  weary  to  pray.  She  dropped  asleep,  thinking 
—  "  Well,  when  I  go  to  my  new  place,  I  can  do  as 
I  wish  to." 

Thus  passed  their  first  night  in  Boston. 


III. 

THE   NEXT  MORNING. 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  the  girls  heard  aunt 
Baily.  "  Come,"  said  she,  "  it  is  time  to  get  up ; 
I  shall  soon  have  breakfast  ready.  The  neighbors 
are  all  stirring ;  keep  your  curtains  down,  if  you 
do  n't  want  them  to  see  you  dress." 

As  soon,  however,  as  she  properly  could,  Ruth 
took  a  peep.  The  neighbor's  house  was  not  im- 
proved by  the  sunlight,  nor  were  the  neighbors 
either.  The  windows  and  blinds  were  dirty  ;  here 
and  there,  a  geranium  or  pink  growing  in  a  broken 
tea-pot,  were  the  only  green  things  visible,  for  the 
lilac  bush  was  out  of  sight.  Then  there  was  such  a 
din  from  the  streets  —  milk-carts,  bakers'  wagons, 
trucks,  and  hacks,  all  rattling  over  the  rough  pave- 
ment together,  and  seeming  as  if  they  must  run  into 
each  other  as  they  rushed  by  with  their  noisy  drivers 
and  restless  horses.  It  seemed  to  Ruth  as  if  every- 
thing was  on  fire,  people  were  in  such  a  hurry. 
She  thought  even  the  sun  appeared  to  get  along 
faster  over  the  chimney-tops,  than  it  did  at  home 
over  her  father's  barn.  She  began  to  look  forlorn. 
21* 


246  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

"  I  do  n't  think  I  shall  like  Boston,"  said  she. 

"  Pooh !  Nonsense  ! "  said  Lucy ;  "  you  can't  see 
anything  here ;  wait  a  bit,  till  we  get  out  of  this 
hole,  and  we  shall  find  it 's  like  a  great  muster-day 
all  the  time.  Besides,  if  we  do  n't  like  it,  we  can 
go  back  again,  and  be  no  worse  off  than  we  were 
before." 

"  I  should  not  feel  as  if  that  would  be  right," 
said  Ruth,  "  after  they  have  been  at  all  the  ex- 
pense of  sending  me." 

"  Breakfast  ready,  girls,  all  hot  and  smoking, 
and  the  sun  is  getting  hotter,"  cried  aunt  Baily,  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

Lucy  hurried ;  Ruth  lingered.  The  truth  was, 
Bhe  wanted  an  opportunity  to  offer  her  morning 
prayer. 

"  I  '11  come  in  a  minute  ;  do  n't  wait,"  said  she 
to  Lucy.  But  Lucy  would  not  go  without  her; 
and  Ruth  reluctantly  followed. 

Things  looked  much  more  cheerful  down  stairs. 
Aunt  Baily  had  her  room  in  nice  order ;  her  win- 
dows were  open,  and  the  lilac-blossoms  were  fra- 
grant. A  few  pots  of  thriving  geraniums,  well 
watered,  stood  there.  Hot  cakes  and  coffee  served 
in  the  "  best  dishes,"  invited  them.  Ruth  waited 
as  if  she  expected  aunt  Baily  to  ask  a  blessing. 
Her  mother  did  so  when  her  father  was  away,  but 
such  was  not  the  custom  here.  • 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS.  247 

The  conversation  naturally  fell  on  the  business 
of  the  day. 

"  These  places  which  I  have  in  view  for  you," 
said  aunt  Baily,  "  seem  to  be  in  first  rate  families; 
and  they  give  good  wages  for  beginners,  —  seven- 
and-six  a  week." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  exclaimed  Lucy.  «  You  do  n't 
catch  me  going  out  under  two  dollars!  " 

"  You  must  find  your  own  place,  then,"  said  her 
aunt,  coolly.  "  You  can't  earn  that  money  ;  you 
are  young  and  inexperienced.  I  would  not  re- 
commend you  to  any  such  situation." 

Ruth  was  satisfied.  It  was  even  more  than  she 
had  expected  to  earn.  "  My  father  told  me  again 
and  again,"  said  she,  "  that  he  cared  a  great  deal 
more  for  the  place  than  the  wages.  He  wants 
to  have  me  in  a  good  pious  family,  where  they  will 
take  some  interest  in  me.  He  is  dreadfully  afraid 
of  these  great  cities  for  young  folks." 

Lucy  laughed  loudly.  "  Well,  I  am  glad,"  said 
she,  "  my  father  is  not  so  notional;  he  thinks  I  can 
take  care  of  myself,  and  it 's  a  pity  if  I  can't.  All 
I  want  is  money.  I  do  n't  much  care  where  I  go, 
or  what  I  do.  I  am  willing  to  work  for  it." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Lucy,"  said  her  aunt,  "  that 
money  is  only  half  of  it.  There  are  a  great  many 
things  of  more  consequence  to  a  young  woman, 
than  a  few  shillings  more  or  less,  a  week.  Brother 


248  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

Hiram  has  the  right  on't.  He  and  I  always  used 
to  think  alike.  If  I  was  sending  a  daughter  of 
mine  into  the  city  to  live  out,  I  should  tell  her  just 
as  he  did.  Get  into  a  good  pious  family,  if  you 
can,  —  at  any  rate,  among  the  good  sort  of  folks. 
Place  first,  and  wages  second.  A  young  girl  com- 
ing for  the  first  time  into  such  a  city  as  this,  wants 
a  home  —  that 's  what  she  wants.  She  needs  to  be 
looked  after  and  cared  for,  and  to  have  some  one 
to  tell  her  where  to  go,  and  when  to  stay,  and  how 
to  spend  her  money.  It  is  not  half  the  poor  girls 
that  can  get  this.  They  come  down  and  go  to  the 
Intelligence  Office,  and  wait  and  wait,  —  boarding 
all  the  time,  —  till  at  last  their  money's  gone, 
and  they  are  driven  to  take  up  the  first  offer  they 
get." 

"  I  suppose  they  can't  help  it,"  said  Ruth. 

"No,  a  great  many  of  them  can't,"  said  aunt 
Baily ;  "  but  for  a  young  girl  who  comes  to  the 
city  for  the  first  time,  it  is  a  pretty  dangerous  ex- 
periment ;  it  has  been  the  ruin  of  many  a  one.  If 
they  have  relations  in  the  city,  the  best  way  is  to 
ask  them  to  look  out  before  they  come,  or  to  have 
an  eye  on  them  at  least,  after  they  do  come  ;  and 
if  they  have  n't,  their  father,  or  somebody  from 
home,  had  better  make  a  sacrifice  and  come  down 
with  them  and  see,  at  least,  that  they  are  in  safe 
places." 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  249 

"  It  is  not  very  often  they  can  afford  this,"  said 
Ruth. 

"  I  know  that,"  said  her  aunt,  "  and  more 's  the 
pity.  Then  if  '  worst  comes  to  the  worst,'  a  girl 
must  make  all  the  inquiries  she  can,  of  people  who 
know  about  these  things,  and  go  to  the  best  office, 
and  best  boarding-house  she  can  hear  about ;  and 
have  her  eyes  open,  and  not  be  afraid  to  ask  ques- 
tions ;  and  have  a  distinct  idea  in  her  mind  of  the 
situation  she  wants,  and  the  work  she  can  do.  She 
must  not  mind  a  dollar  or  two,  more  or  less,  in  get- 
ting a  start.  She  should  not  come  alone,  without 
money  enough  to  take  care  of  herself  properly 
until  she  is  provided  for.  But  it  is  high  time 
we  were  off;  you  get  ready,  girls,  while  I  clear 
away." 

This  "  getting  ready"  was  an  important  affair  to 
Lucy.  She  opened  her  trunk,  and  took  out  her 
best.  When  fully  rigged,  therefore,  she  had  on  a 
slimsy  silk  dress,  a  lace  cape,  blue  kid  gloves,  and 
carried  a  pink  parasol,  and  a  pocket  handkerchief 
trimmed  with  wide  cotton  lace.  She  intended  to 
make  an  impression.  She  thought '  genteel  places 
would  want  genteel  girls.' 

Ruth,  also,  wore  her  best ;  but  this  was  a  pretty 
gingham,  ironed  without  wrinkle,  of  a  neat  color, 
with  cotton  gloves  to  match,  and  her  plain  straw  bon- 
net Aunt  Baily  saw  at  a  glance  how  much  ad- 


250  THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

vantage  Ruth's  simple  and  neat  appearance  gave 
her.  Her  first  thought  was  to  advise  Lucy  to  dress 
in  the  same  way  ;  but  she  looked  into  her  pretty, 
bright  face,  and  concluded  to  let  the  girls  take  their 
own  course  in  the  matter.  She  was  ready,  and 
they  started  without  delay. 


IV. 

SEEKING   PLACES. 

OUR  party  called  first  on  Mrs.  Fay.  She  was 
the  lady  who  wished  for  a  nursery  maid.  As  the 
cousins  entered  her  handsomely  furnished  parlors, 
they  were  somewhat  awestruck.  They  had  never 
seen  so  much  splendor.  "  Why,  the  Squire's  house 
in  their  village,  would  not  begin  to  compare  with 
it."  Even  Lucy  began  to  think  she  never  should 
be  genteel  enough  for  such  a  place.  They  seated 
themselves  by  the  window,  and  awaited  in  some 
trepidation  Mrs.  Fay's  appearance. 

Mrs.  Fay  was  a  very  pleasant  lady.  She  knew 
aunt  Baily,  and  aunt  Baily  seemed  to  feel  at  home 
with  her.  She  inquired  which  of  the  two  girls 
wished  to  live  with  her  —  looking  at  Ruth  all  the 
time.  Ruth  colored,  and  did  not  know  what  to 
say  at  first  Her  aunt  answered  for  her.  Mrs. 
Fay  wished  to  have  her  come  on  the  Monday  fol- 
lowing, and  make  a  trial ;  and  she  spoke  so  simply 
and  pleasantly,  and  right  to  the  point  about  the 
work,  —  telling  just  what  was  to  be  done,  and 
what  was  to  be  paid,  that  Ruth  felt  there  was  a 


252  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

perfect  understanding  between  them ;  and  she  took 
leave,  well  satisfied. 

"  I  shall  like  her,  I  know,"  said  Ruth,  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone.  "  I  do  n't  believe  I  could  have 
found  a  better  place ;  and  I  like  to  take  care  of 
children." 

"  More  fool  you,"  said  Lucy ;  "  you  never  know 
when  that  work  is  done  up." 

"  I  do  n't  care,"  said  Ruth,  "  if  it  is  harder,  some- 
times ;  it  is  pleasanter.  It  pays  its  way  better, 
because  the  children  love  you,  and  you  love  them." 

"  I  guess  you  will  be  a  pretty  good  hand  at  it," 
said  aunt  Baily. 

After  a  short  walk  in  another  direction,  they  call- 
ed on  Mrs.  Roberts.  Lucy's  eye  brightened,  when 
she  entered  parlors  which  were  even  more  magnifi- 
cent than  those  they  had  just  seen.  Here  were  velvet 
couches,  and  chandeliers,  and  crimson  curtains,  and 
mirrors,  and  pictures,  —  and  many  things  of  which 
they  knew  neither  the  name  nor  the  use. 

"  How  elegant !  "  said  Ruth ;  "  it  is  handsomer 
than  our  pulpit,  Lucy.  It  reminds  me  of  the  Bi- 
ble story  about  Solomon's  temple.  I  did  not  know 
as  anybody  lived  so  in  our  country." 

"  Nor  I,  either,"  said  Lucy,  who  began  to  have 
many  fears  lest  she  should  not  suit  city  people. 
Perhaps  she  was  too  '  countrified.'  She  would 
have  looked  more  stylish  if  she  had  known  how. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIXS.  253 

Mrs.  Roberts  asked  more  questions  than  Mrs.  Fay 
had  done.  She  did  not  seem  too  well  pleased  with 
Lucy's  appearance.  She  asked  if  Ruth  was  en- 
gaged ;  and  looked  disappointed  on  hearing  that 
she  was.  Being,  however,  in  immediate  want,  she 
told  Lucy  she  might  come  on  trial ;  but  wished  her 
to  come  immediately  after  dinner.  "  She  could 
return,"  she  said,  "  and  put  on  a  suitable  dress,  and 
her  trunk  should  be  sent  for  in  the  evening." 

Lucy  was  much  downcast.  "  I  do  not  believe  I 
shall  like  her,"  said  she ;  "  she  is  one  of  your  par- 
ticular folks.  I  don't  want  to  go  to-day,  either. 
It  is  too  bad.  I  wish  I  had  not  told  her  I  'd  come." 

"  I  know  of  no  other  place  for  you,"  said  aunt 
Baily,  "  and  I  have  n't  time  to  look  up  another.  If 
you  do  not  meet  your  engagement,  you  must  go  to 
the  Intelligence  Office  and  try  your  luck.  You 
will  have  chance  enough  to  see  Boston.  Mrs, 
Roberts's  girls  all  speak  well  of  her." 

Lucy  saw  that  it  would  not  answer  for  her  not 
to  keep  her  appointment.  They  crossed  the  com- 
mon, and  walked  through  the  mall  under  the  arch- 
ing elms.  Countless  numbers  of  nurses  and  frol- 
icking children  were  there,  —  the  common  seemed 
alive  with  them. 

"  You  will  probably  have  to  walk  here  every 
pleasant  day,  Ruth,"  said  aunt  Baily. 

Ruth  looked  much  pleased ;  indeed,  she  felt  so ; 
22 


254  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

and  for  the  first  time  her  city  life  seemed  attractive 
to  her. 

"  See  what  I  shall  get  by  taking  care  of  chil- 
dren," said  she  to  Lucy.  Lucy  was  silent.  She 
was  not  well  pleased  with  her  own  prospects  ;  how- 
ever, she  made  no  more  objection  to  them.  After 
dinner,  she  dressed  herself  more  simply  and  went 
to  her  new  place. 

Ruth  felt  lonesome  at  first ;  but  she  occupied 
herself  with  sewing  until  her  aunt  returned  from 
her  work,  and  was  ready  to  sit  down  and  talk  with 
her.  The  evening  passed  in  friendly  conversation. 
Ruth  began  to  like  her  aunt ;  and  to  feel  a  sense 
of  home  and  relationship,  which  quite  compensated 
for  the  loss  of  Lucy.  She  also  had  her  room  to 
herself.  She  could  now  read  and  pray,  as  was  her 
custom.  She  felt  self-satisfied  after  she  had  per- 
formed these  duties,  and  slept  peacefully. 

The  next  day  was  the  Sabbath.  Ruth  rose  at 
the  usual  time  ;  but  aunt  Baily  was  not  up.  She 
therefore  took  her  Bible  out  of  her  trunk,  and  sat 
down  by  the  window  to  look  over  the  lesson  which 
her  class  had  for  the  day.  She  had  a  vague  feel- 
ing of  seriousness,  and  a  general  impression  that 
she  must  not  think  of  everything,  because  it  was 
Sunday.  The  good  deacon,  her  father,  had  brought 
up  his  family  to  be  very  strict  in  the  observance 
of  the  Sabbath.  Good  habits  formed  under  his 


THE    COUXTItY    COUSINS.  2<JO 

strict  religious  training,  were  now  to  be  Ruth's 
great  safeguard,  —  for  she  had  no  better  experience 
of  true  piety. 

Much  later  than  usual,  her  aunt  called  her  down 
to  breakfast.  Ruth  did  not  know  exactly  what  to 
talk  about.  Soon,  she  found  that  aunt  Baily  made 
no  great  difference,  in  the  subjects  of  conversa- 
tion, between  this  and  any  other  morning.  Ruth 
was  surprised.  She  began  to  think  it  possible  that 
she  might  have  misunderstood  her  father,  and  that 
her  aunt  was  not  a  professor  of  religion.  Ruth 
had  never  been  away  from  home  before  ;  she  had 
yet  to  learn,  that  there  are  many  professing  Chris- 
tians who  make  no  change  in  their  conversation  for 
the  Sabbath. 

Ruth  went  to  church  all  day.  It  seemed  to  her 
like  some  great  holiday.  She  asked,  with  sur- 
prise, '  if  it  was  always  so,  on  a  Sunday  ? '  She 
also  now  heard  an  organ,  for  the  first  time.  She 
was  bewildered  and  astonished  by  everything 
she  saw  and  heard,  —  the  frescoed  ceiling  —  the 
marble  pulpit  —  the  carpeted  church  —  the  gor- 
geously dressed  assembly ;  —  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
very  meanly  clad,  —  she  thought  people  noticed 
her.  At  night,  she  was  weary  with  excitement. 
Aunt  Baily  never  went  to  a  third  service,  and  Ruth 
was  glad  to  stay  at  home.  She  read,  or  tried  to  do 
so,  until  tea-time.  After  tea,  they  talked  again, 


256-  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

until  sunset  As  soon  as  it  was  dark,  Ruth  went 
up  and  brought  down  her  knitting-work. 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  aunt  Baily,  "  do  you  knit  Sun- 
day nights  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes  ;  we  always  do,  —  we  keep  Saturday 
night." 

"  Why,  I  do  n't  know  as  I  have  seen  any  one  do 
it,  these  dozen  years." 

"  It  is  not  the  fashion,  then,  in  Boston,"  said 
Ruth. 

"  No,  indeed ! "  replied  her  aunt.  "  They  would 
not  know  what  to  make  of  you  here,  to  see  you 
knitting!  However,  I  don't  know  as  it  makes 
much  difference." 

Ruth  rolled  up  her  work;  but  this  little  circum- 
stance increased  the  strangeness  of  the  day  to  her, 
—  she  again  felt  cheerless  and  homesick.  It  was 
growing  dark ;  she  suffered  the  tears  to  roll  down 
her  cheeks,  for  she  knew  they  were  not  seen. 

Ruth  retired,  dissatisfied.  She  had  experienced 
nothing  of  the  calm  and  tranquillizing  influence  of 
a  Sabbath  at  home.  She  was  now  to  find  out  how 
much  of  her  religious  enjoyment  she  owed  to  the 
influences  around  her,  and  what  share  her  own 
heart  really  had  in  it. 


V. 

RUTH'S  INTRODUCTION. 

ON  Monday  morning,  Ruth  went  to  her  new 
home.  She  was  already  neatly  attired  in  a  work- 
ing dress,  and  was  soon  installed  in  the  nursery. 
Here,  she  made  so  good  a  use  of  her  time  that  by 
noon  she  had  quite  won  the  hearts  of  her  little 
charge.  At  dinner,  Robert  and  Alice  were  loud 
in  her  praises. 

"  She  has  cut  me  horses  all  the  morning,  father," 
said  Robert 

"  She  is  a  beautiful  girl,"  chimed  in  Alice.  Their 
father  smiled,  and  made  some  remark  about '  new 
brooms  sweeping  clean.' 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  father  and  mother 
were  quite  as  well  pleased  as  the  children.  Ruth 
had  been  exceedingly  well  brought  up,  and  she  soon 
showed  her  good,  industrious  habits.  Mrs.  Fay, 
after  telling  her  what  she  wanted  done,  left  her  at 
first  to  take  her  own  way  of  doing  it,  —  in  order 
to  see  how  much  she  knew  about  her  work.  Ruth 
had  been  accustomed  to  rise  as  soon  as  she  was 
awake,  and  always  woke  early.  It  was  a  great 
comfort  to  Mrs.  Fay  not  to  be  obliged  to  call  her 
22* 


258  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN'S. 

every  morning,  as  she  had  her  predecessor ;  and  it 
was  an  advantage  to  Ruth,  also ;  since  she  gained 
in  this  way  a  short,  uninterrupted  time  to  herself. 
This  she  devoted  strictly  to  reading  her  Bible, 
and  prayer:  for  she  knew  that  if  she  did  not  secure 
this  time  for  her  religious  duties,  she  could  not 
find  a  quiet  moment  through  the  day.  These  sea- 
sons also  she  enjoyed,  to  a  certain  degree,  for 
there  was 'something  in  the  freshness  of  morning 
air,  and  rest  of  mind  and  body,  which  made  enjoy- 
ment easy.  Besides,  she  was  always  satisfied  with 
herself  when  she  had  gone  through  her  daily  forms 
of  prayer,  —  and  troubled  in  her  conscience  if  she 
neglected  them.  Thus,  invariably  good-humored, 
and  very  tidy  in  her  dress,  she  went  to  the  chil- 
dren. Sometimes,  "  they  got  out  of  bed  the  wrong 
way,"  as  she  would  tell  them,  and  were  fretful, 
and  troublesome  to  manage  ;  —  "  yes,  fretful"  — 
Ruth  would  have  said,  "  if  you  have  a  mind  to  be 
fretted  by  them."  But  she  felt  that  this  was  a  part 
of  her  business  —  to  take  them  just  as  they  were, 
and  make  them  good-humored,  and  have  them 
dressed  for  breakfast  if  she  could.  "  Children  will 
be  children,"  she  had  heard  her  mother  say  a 
thousand  times,  as  she,  —  a  perfect  model  of  pa- 
tience, —  bore  with  her  boisterous  boys.  O,  these 
good  mothers  !  God  bless  them !  Are  they  no! 
everything  to  us? 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  259 

Mrs.  Fay  often  went  into  her  servants'  rooms* 
Ruth's  room  was  always  in  order ;  her  clothes 
were  hung  up ;  her  brushes  in  their  places ;  every- 
thing was  neat  and  comfortable,  just  as  it  was  in 
the  nursery,  —  and  her  mistress  began  to  like  her 
so  much,  that  a  visitor  gave  her  a  caution,  one  day, 
to  be  careful  lest  she  should  spoil  her  by  too  much 
attention  and  familiarity.  Perhaps  there  was  not 
much  danger  of  this;  for  Ruth  was  really  very 
modest  in  her  deportment.  She  never  made  any 
improper  advances  towards  intimacy  with  Mrs. 
Fay,  —  and  yet  when  she  came  to  sit  down  to  talk 
with  her  she  was  very  free  and  social,  for  she  early  be- 
gan to  look  upon  her  as  the  best  friend  and  adviser 
she  had  in  Boston.  True,  she  was  a  Yankee  girl 
—  the  daughter  of  a  Yankee  farmer,  and  it  is  not 
easy  to  get  the  idea  of  service  into  a  Yankee  mind. 
Yet  her  father  was  a  man  of  good  sense,  and  he 
had  given  her  some  good  advice  on  this  point. 

"  Now,  my  child,"  said  he,  "  do  n't  you  go  with 
any  notions  in  your  head  about  not  being  made  a 
servant  of,  because  you  have  never  lived  out ; 
you  need  n't  let  folks  abuse  you,  —  they  sha'n't  do 
it;  but  you  must  do  everything  that  properly  be- 
longs to  your  office.  This  is  what  you  are  paid 
for,  and  if  you  feel  above  it  the  only  vay  is  to 
quit  it,  and  take  one  you  are  not  too  good  for.  For 
my  part,  I  had  rather  you  would  be  a  good  servant 


260 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIS3. 


in  a  good  family,  where  you  will  be  looked  after 
than  to  have  you  go  to  a  trade.  I  think  it  is  more 
healthy.  And  as  to  a  factory,  you  never  shall  go 
into  one  with  my  consent."  Ruth  remembered  this, 
and  remembered  how  her  father  chucked  her  under 
the  chin,  when  he  had  said  it. 

Some  of  my  readers, by  this  time,  may  be  think- 
ing to  themselves,  —  "Why,  this  Ruth  looks  very 
well  in  a  book,  but  one  does  not  often  meet  with 
her  in  real  life.  Pray,  had  she  no  faults  ?  "  In 
reply  to  this  I  have  to  say,  that  I  knew  one  such 
Ruth,  at  least ;  and  that  I  believe  there  are  many 
more.  Perhaps  she  had  faults  —  we  shall  see. 

One  Saturday  night,  Ruth  showed  Mrs.  Fay  her 
week's  work  completely  finished,  at  which  Mrs. 
Fay  expressed  surprise.  "  "Why  Ruth,  how  in  the 
world  is  it,  that  you  manage  to  accomplish  so  much, 
when  you  are  not  a  quick  worker  ?  " 

Ruth  laughed.  "I  do  not  know,  I  am  sure," 
she  said  in  reply,  "  unless  it  is  because  I  use  up 
all  my  odds  and  ends  of  time.  I  used  to  think  I 
never  could  do  anything  unless  I  sat  right  down  to 
It ;  but  I  have  learned  since  I  had  babies  to  take 
care  of,  that  one  gets  along  by  catching  up  when 
one  can.  I  always  calculate  to  have  my  work 
handy,  —  so  I  can  sew,  if  I  have  n't  more  than  five 
minutes."  Ruth  liked  to  be  praised  when  she  had 
done  a  thing  well,  and  Mrs. Fay  liked  to  praise  her. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  261 

"  This  knowledge  will  be  worth  something  to 
you,  if  you  ever  have  a  family  of  your  own,"  said 
Mrs.  Fay. 

Ruth  blushed,  and  looked  rather  foolish,  and 
"  guessed  that  would  never  come  to  pass." 

Much  as  she  accomplished  by  this  policy,  her 
time  was  not  wholly  occupied  with  sewing  and 
taking  care  of  children.  She  had  leisure  for  read- 
ing, and  was  fond  of  it.  She  read  every  story- 
book and  novel  that  fell  in  her  way ;  and  they 
were  not  a  few.  Kate,  the  cook,  had  a  brother 
who  used  frequently  to  bring  in  there  worthless, 
cheap  stories  ;  Lucy,  also,  found  them  in  great 
numbers,  at  Mrs.  Roberta's.  Mrs.  Fay  saw,  with 
pain,  one  succeed  another  in  Ruth's  work-basket ; 
and  thought,  so  far  as  they  made  any  impression 
at  all,  it  was  an  injurious  one.  Ruth  lost  her  relish 
entirely  for  more  sober  and  profitable  reading. 
Sometimes  she  would  be  so  interested  over  a  love- 
story  that  she  could  not  leave  it  in  the  morning, 
except  for  a  very  formal,  short,  hurried  prayer. 
She  became  moody,  and  often  lost  her  cheerful  ex- 
pression. Her  imagination  and  feelings  were  ex- 
cited by  sickly  sentiment ;  and  her  conscience 
troubled  her.  She  had  never  read  novels  before, 
in  all  her  life.  Ruth  was  nowr  in  some  danger.  It 
was  well  for  her,  that  she  was  with  kind  Mrs.  Fay, 
who  felt  interested  in  her  improvement.  After  a 


262  THE    COUNTUY    COUSINS. 

little  time  she  talked  with  Ruth,  and  told  her  that 
such  reading  would  do  her  far  more  harm  than 
good,  besides  taking  up  her  time  which  might  be 
much  better  employed  on  other  things.  She  talk- 
ed earnestly,  and  Ruth  listened  to  her  and  made 
her  a  promise  that  she  would  read  no  more  such 
fcrash.  Mrs.  Fay,  after  this,  took  much  pains  to 
provide  for  her  interesting  and  instructive  books. 
Some  of  these  were  of  a  directly  religious  charac- 
ter. Ruth's  conscience  and  heart  became  again 
tender.  The  dust  no  longer  settled  on  that  Bible 
which  her  father  had  given  her.  She  became  strict, 
again,  in  the  observance  of  all  her  religious  duties; 
but  still,  alas  l  with  much  secret  self-satisfaction. 


VI. 

MISS    DARLIXG. 

KATE,  the  cook  in  Mrs.  Fay's  family  was  an  Irish 
woman,  and  a  Roman  Catholic;  of  course,  she 
never  attended  family  prayers.  Ruth  could  not 
attend,  unless  the  baby  was  asleep ;  and  she  soon 
fell  into  the  habit  of  staying  away,  and  making  no 
effort  to  attend.  On  the  Sabbath,  also,  she  wan- 
dered about  from  one  church  to  another;  sometimes 
from  curiosity,  and  sometimes  by  accident,  dropping 
into  all  sorts  of  places  of  worship  ;  and  in  this  way 
the  day  was  quite  lost  to  her.  She  had  a  feeling 
at  heart  which  she  would  never  have  expressed  in 
words, '  that  girls  who  lived  out  and  worked  hard, 
could  not  be  very  religious ;  that  if  she  ever  had 
her  time  at  her  own  command  and  could  read  her 
Bible  and  pray  regularly,  and  attend  prayer-meet- 
ings often,  then  she  would  become  a  child  of  God 
and  serve  Him  very  faithfully.'  Mrs.  Fay  offered 
to  procure  her  a  seat  in  the  church  which  she  her- 
self attended ;  but  Ruth  for  some  time  declined, 
saying,  "  she  would  rather  look  around  a  little,  be- 
fore she  settled  down  anywhere." 


264  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

Not  long  after  she  came  into  this  family,  she  be- 
came acquainted  with  a  mantuamaker,  Miss  Dar- 
ling,—  whose  acquaintance  was  of  great  importance 
to  her.  Miss  Darling  was  a  most  excellent  woman, 
• — quiet,  unpretending,  modest  in  her  demeanor, 
but  intelligent,  and  a  very  Christian.  It  was  won- 
derful how  much  good  she  accomplished  ;  though 
she  did  it  as  silently  as  the  dew  falls.  She  never 
left  her  little  room  for  her  day's  work,  without  a 
sincere  prayer  that  God  would  give  her  the  heart 
and  the  opportunity  to  do  something  for  Kim  ;  and 
though  she  said  comparatively  little,  and  was  busy 
all  through  the  day  with  silks  and  satins,  yet  at 
evening,  there  remained  among  those  who  had 
been  with  her,  a  silent  but  deep  impressku  of  the 
value  and  dignity  of  a  pious  life. 

Ruth  and  she  sat  and  sewed  together  several 
days  ;  and  almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  Ruth 
had  told  her  "  all  the  things  that  ever  she  did,"  and 
what  an  excellent  home  she  had  left ;  and,  also,  how 
she  was  now  spending  her  Sabbaths  ;  and  she  ac- 
knowledged that  her  father  would  not  be  pleased 
with  her  Sunday  roamings.  But  she  said  that  her 
aunt  Baily  was  a  Methodist ;  and  she  did  not  care 
to  go  there,  for  she  had  never  been  used  to  their 
ways,  and  that  she  felt  timid  about  going  with  Mrs. 
Fay,  because  she  knew  no  one  there. 

Miss  Darling  told  her  that,  if  she  would  only 


THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS.  265 

settle  down  in  one  place,  and  join  a  Sablath- 
school,  she  would  be  happier.  "  I  think,"  said 
Miss  Darling,  "  that  if  we  lose  our  Sundays, 
nothing  goes  right  through  the  whole  week.  It  is 
all  topsy-turvy  ;  and  besides,  this  gadding  about 
in  our  religion  is  not  profitable.  We  need  to  be- 
long to  some  one  church,  and  to  feel  that  it  is  ours, 
and  that  the  preacher  is  our  minister;  and  that  we 
have  our  meetings,  and  sewing-circles,  and  societies. 
If  you  will  only  promise  me  to  do  so,  I  will  call 
for  you  next  Sabbath  and  go  with  you,  and  intro- 
duce you  to  some  of  the  girls  whom  I  know." 

This  was  just  what  Ruth  needed,  to  be  taken 
by  the  hand  in  this  way.  She  thanked  Miss  Dar- 
ling, and  told  her  she  would  go  ;  though  she  was 
much  afraid  she  could  not  keep  up  with  the  city 
girls  in  studying,  and  she  felt  almost  ashamed  to  go 
because  of  her  ignorance. 

Good  as  her  word,  Miss  Darling  called  for  Ruth 
on  the  following  Sabbath.  She  was  ready  to  go ; 
at  least  she  was  dressed,  but  her  mind  was  some- 
what out  of  tune.  The  baby  had  been  trouble- 
some, and  the  necessary  work  of  the  day  had  fallen 
behind-hand.  This  disturbed  her ;  she  would  have 
preferred  to  put  off  joining  a  Sabbath-school  class 
until  another  time  ;  but  did  not  like  to  propose  it, 
as  Miss  Darling  ha-i  taken  the  trouble  lo  r;.!l  for 
her.  TLis  good  friend,  by  quiet  and  plcasai/.  ccn- 
23 


266  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

vernation,  led  her  soul  into  stiller  waters,  so  that 
by  the  time  she  reached  the  church  she  was  tran- 
quil and  happy. 

She  now  joined  Mr.  Clark's  class,  which  con- 
sisted of  several  young  girls  near  her  own  age ; 
and  in  a  very  short  time  she  became  acquainted 
with  them,  and  attached  to  her  teacher.  He  had 
acquired  a  great  deal  of  influence  over  his  class. 
Ruth  never  had  a  teacher  whom  she  liked  so 
much.  She  would  quote  his  opinions,  and  repeat 
his  remarks  on  all  important  occasions,  as  if  there 
could  be  no  appeal  from  them  —  so  much  power 
had  he  over  her.  Often,  when  she  could  be  spared 
for  an  hour,  she  would  slip  in  to  have  a  talk  with 
Miss  Darling  about  the  Sabbath  School.  Isot  a 
day  passed  in  which  she  did.  not  find  a  few  minutes 
to  devote  to  her  lesson.  Mrs.  Fay  provided  her 
from  her  own  library  with  all  the  help  she  needed, 
and  often  a  light  might  be  seen  in  her  attic- 
window  till  late  in  the  night.  She  would  study  a 
while  then,  if  it  had  happened  so  that  she  had  not 
been  able  to  do  it  through  the  day,  —  for  she  was 
very  ambitious  to  go  into  her  class  well  prepared. 
If  she  met  with  difficulties  which  Mrs.  Fay  could 
not  solve,  Miss  Darling  seldon  failed  to  explain 
them  for  her.  Now  this  studying,  aside  from  its 
moral  bearing,  was  worth  a  great  deal  to  Ruth 
for  its  intellectual  discipline.  She  must  read, 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  267 

and  think,  and  compare,  and  reason,  and  remember, 
and  often  her  teacher  required  her  to  write  her 
thoughts.  All  this,  it  is  true,  was  secondary  to  the 
main  object  of  Mr.  Clark's  teaching,  but  still  it  was 
valuable  to  Ruth  ;  it  was  all  the  schooling  that  she 
now  had. 

Mr.  Clark  talked  to  his  class  a  great  deal  about 
"  asking  questions."  He  told  them  that  it  added 
so  much  to  the  interest  of  the  recitations,  he  wished 
they  would  do  it  freely.  Ruth  soon  found  that  one 
must  know  something,  even  to  ask  a  question.  She 
therefore  made  it  a  part  of  her  preparation,  to  no- 
tice the  thoughts  and  feelings  excited  by  the  pas- 
sage she  was  studying,  and  frame  them  into  such 
questions  as  she  would  feel  willing  to  ask  before 
the  class.  This  was  a  good  plan ;  she  knew  what 
she  was  about,  and  could  be  self-possessed  when 
she  came  to  speak. 

Much  other  good,  also,  came  from  her  joining 
a  Sabbath  School.  She  formed  acquaintances 
among  an  excellent  class  of  girls.  This  gave  her 
the  society  which  she  needed,  and  that  of  just  the 
right  kind.  They  often  had  pleasant  social  meet- 
ings  in  the  evening ;  sometimes  to  study  a  difficult 
lesson ;  sometimes  giving  an  evening  to  refit  old 
clothing  for  destitute  children.  As  Ruth  now 
never  asked  to  go  out  except  on  some  such  occa- 
sion, or  to  see  Miss  Darling,  and  was  really  mod- 


268  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

erate  in  these  requests,  Mrs.  Fay  made  an  effort 
to  gratify  her  if  possible.  Sometimes,  however,  it 
so  happened  that  she  could  not  be  spared.  She 
bore  the  disappointment  very  pleasantly,  I  am 
glad  to  say,  —  feeling  that  she  must  accommodate 
herself  to  the  comfort  of  the  family  of  which  she 
was  now  a  happy  member. 

'  Cousin  Lucy'  could  not  be  persuaded  to  join 
this  Sabbath  School;  and  from  a  variety  of  causes, 
which  we  may  by  and  by  notice,  had  not  succeeded 
very  well.  Ruth  had  never  spent  a  happier  or 
more  profitable  winter.  She  wrote  home  regularly, 
and  her  letters  were  a  great  source  of  comfort  to 
her  parents  and  amusement  to  the  boys ;  her 
wages,  also,  were  accumulating,  to  be  ready  for  her 
father's  use  in  the  spring. 

Perhaps  I  leave  the  impression  that  Ruth  was 
very  happy.  I  ought  to  qualify  it ;  there  was  one 
burden  on  her  conscience.  She  felt  that  she  was 
not  really  a  child  of  God ;  and  yet  she  thought 
she  was  in  earnest  in  wishing  that  she  could  be 
one ;  and  she  would  comfort  herself  by  hoping 
that  at  some  future  time  she  should  be 


VII. 

MONEY   AND    DRESS. 

have  nearly  lost  sight  of  cousin  Lucy ;  in- 
deed, it  is  not  so  pleasant  to  keep  trace  of  her. 
Perhaps  a  call,  which  she  made  on  Ruth  in  the 
spring,  may  let  us  a  little  into  the  secret  of  her 
progress. 

Ruth  was  sitting  at  the  nursery  window,  busily 
doing  up  the  week's  mending.  Her  Question-book 
was  on  the  window-sill  open,  and  occasionally  she 
looked  into  it,  for  a  single  minute.  The  children 
were  playing  around  her,  on  the  floor,  very  con- 
tentedly. They  liked  to  be  with  Ruth,  for  she 
never  scolded  them.  The  door  opened,  and  a 
richly-dressed  person  entered.  Ruth  looked  twice, 
before  she  recognized  Lucy,  and  when  she  did,  she 
exclaimed :  — 

"  What  in  the  world  have  you  got  on  ?  " 

"  My  own  clothes,"  said  Lucy ;  "  what  makes 
you  so  astonished  ?  " 

"  Why,  how  could  you  afford  to  buy  such  a 
shawl  as  that  ?  " 

"  Easy  enough,"  said  Lucy.     "  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it,  if  ycu  will  ask  me  to  sit  down." 
23* 


270  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

When  she  was  seated  to  her  satisfaction,  and 
had  made  some  inquiries  after'  Ruth's  welfare,  she 
took  off  her  shawl  and  hat  and  began  to  talk. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  "  said  she,  turning 
the  brightest  side  of  the  shawl  out,  and  throwing  it 
over  Ruth's  shoulders  ;  "  is  n't  it  elegant  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed !"  said  Ruth ;  "  but  where  is  your 
blanket-shawl  ?  That  was  nicer  than  mine." 

"  La !  that  is  nothing  but  an  old  dud ;  nobody 
wears  such  things  now  ! " 

"  Do  n't  they  ?  "  said  Ruth  ;  "  why  Mrs.  Fay  told 
me,  mine  would  answer  nicely." 

"  They  a'nt  genteel  —  that,  I  know.  No  genteel 
people  wear  them.  This  is  all  the-go  ;  for  Fanny 
and  Mary  Roberts  have  them,  and  I  heard  them 
say  where  they  were  bought,  and  that  the  price 
was  ten  dollars ;  and  I  went  and  beat  the  man 
down  to  eight  —  wa'n't  that  a  bargain  ?  And  my 
bonnet,  too,  is  n't  it  splendid  ?  Only  put  it  on  !  — 
I  declare,  Ruth,  it  makes  a  different  girl  of  you !  I 
should  not  know  you  !  You  must  have  one !  I'  11 
tell  you  how  cheap  I  got  it ;  I  asked  Mary  Rob- 
erts where  hers  came  from,  and  I  knew  it  was 
eight  dollars,  —  and  I  went  to  the  milliner's  and 
got  one  almost  exactly  like  it,  and  made  her  let 
me  have  it  for  five.  I  '11  get  you  one,  if  you  want 
me  to." 

Ruth  had  been  standing  before  the  glass,  ad- 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  271 

miring  her  improved  appearance.  She  had  never 
worn  anything  so  costly  ;  the  articles  were,  indeed, 
exceedingly  becoming.  She  wished  she  had  some 
like  them,  —  "  and  why  not?  was  she  not  earning 
as  much  money  as  Lucy  ?  Then,  why  should  she 
wear  '  old  duds,'  when  Lucy  dressed  so  handsome- 
ly ?  "  Very  soon,  however,  this  feeling  left  her ; 
—  she  turned  away  from  the  mirror,  and  laying 
the  finery  carefully  down  on  the  bed,  went  back  to 
her  darning-needle  with  a  pleasant  smile  on  her 
face. 

"  "Well,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  said  Lucy,  a  little 
disappointed. 

"  They  are  very  handsome,  but  not  suitable  for 
me,"  said  Ruth  ;  "  in  my  situation,  if  I  dress  neat- 
ly and  prettily  now,  it  is  all  I  can  do  ;  I  can't  af- 
ford to  be  genteel.  I  want  my  money  more  than 
I  do  fine  clothes." 

"  Who  has  been  filling  your  head  with  such  prim 
notions,  pray,  Ruth  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  as  they  are  prim,  Lucy.  Mrs. 
Fay  often  talks  with  me  about  spending  money ; 
and  she  advised  me,  when  I  first  came  here,  to  put 
by  just  such  a  proportion  of  my  wages  as  I  thought 
I  ought  to  spend  on  dress ;  and  then  spend  that,  and 
no  more.  If  I  had  to  buy  a  heavy  article  one 
quarter,  and  exceeded  my  allowance,  —  spend  just 
so  much  less  next  quarter,  and  make  it  up.  This 


272  THE    COVXTRY   COUSINS. 

has  been  a  grand  plan  for  me ;  for  I  never  had 
money  before,  and  did  not  know  how  to  spend  it, 
nor  what  I  needed.  I  set  down  everything  now, 
as  fast  as  I  buy ;  and  when  I  see  any  pretty  thing 
I  want,  I  run  and  look  in  my  little  book,  to  see  if 
I  can  afford  to  buy  it ;  f.nrl  if  I  can't,  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  not  to  think  more  of  it.  I  have  al- 
ready laid  by  more  money  for  father  than  he  ex- 
pected I  would." 

"  Dear  me !  Euth,  I  think  you  are  a  great  fool ! 
For  my  part,  I  mean  to  take  the  comfort  of  my 
money  as  I  go  along.  I  a'nt  go;np  to  slave  myself 
to  death  for  nothing,  I  know  ;  and  J  '11  not  wear  any- 
thing that  looks  mean ;  my  things  r-haJl  be  genteel. 
We  must  be  up  to  the  ways  of  the  world,  Ruth,  if 
we  mean  to  have  the  good  of  living  in  it," 

Ruth  laughed.  "  You  think  a  good  deal  more 
of  that  than  I  do,  Lucy.  Everybody  who  knows 
anything  about  me,  knows  that  I  am  a  poor  girl, 
and  work  out ;  and  if  I  try  to  cut  a  dash,  all  they 
can  say,  is  — '  See,  she  puts  all  her  wages  on  her 
back  ! '  If  they  do  n't  know  me,  I  do  n't  care  what 
they  think.  I  do  n't  want  to  spend  my  money  on 
something  handsome  for  them  to  look  at,  as  they 
walk  along.  '  Nothing  looks  well  that  is  not  suita- 
ble,' Mrs.  Fay  told  me  once  ;  and  the  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  more  I  believe  it.  Now  it  seems  to  me, 
that  I  should  roally  look  better  in  my  nice  blanket- 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIXS.  273 

shawl  than  in  one  like  yours,  which  would  not 
correspond  with  anything  else  I  can  wear." 

"  O  Ruth,  I  do  love  you  dearly,"  said  little  Alice, 
who  was  tired  of  sewing,  and  had  a  sudden  love- 
fit. 

"  What  will  you  do  when  she  goes  off,"  said 
Lucy. 

"  Mamma  said  last  morning,  she  never  should 
go  off;  she  is  going  to  live  here  all  the  time  ; 
she  is  my  Ruth." 

"  She  will  go  one  of  these  days,  before  you 
know  it,"  said  Lucy. 

The  child  began  to  get  into  an  angry  dispute 
about  her  proprietorship  in  Ruth ;  this  excited  the 
baby  till  he  began  to  strike  up  his  tune. 

"So  much  for  taking  care  of  young  ones,"  said 
Lucy. 

"  It  is  work  /like,"  mildly  replied  her  cousin,  as 
she  pacified  the  children.  When  peace  was  re- 
stored, the  girls  resumed  their  conversation. 

"  There  was  something  1  wanted  to  say  to  you, 
Lucy  —  what  was  it  ?  oh !  now  I  remember,  — 
about  buying  tilings  like  the  young  ladies;  do  they 
like  to  have  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know  —  I  never  asked  them.  I  can 
dress  as  I  have  a  mind  to,  I  hope ;  my  money  is 
my  own,  —  what  business  is  it  of  theirs  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  —  when  I  first 


274 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 


came  here,  Mrs.  Fay  wore  a  morning  dress,  which 
I  thought  was  very  handsome ;  and  I  wanted  to 
have  one  just  like  it ;  and  one  day  I  asked  Miss 
Darling  if  she  would  cut  it  for  me,  if  I  bought  it  ? 
She  told  me  very  kindly,  that  perhaps  I  had  better 
ask  Mrs.  Fay,  before  I  purchased,  for  it  was  not 
customary  here  for  the  girls  to  dress  like  the  ladies 
with  whom  they  live,  without  asking  them  before- 
hand." 

"  You  wa'n't  such  a  goose  as  to  mind  her  ?  " 

"  Yes  I  was ;  and  I  was  glad  of  it,  too.  I  asked 
her  one  morning,  if  she  would  care  if  I  bought  a 
dress  like  that  ?  '  And  she  told  me  that  we  should 
both  of  us  be  likely  to  get  tired  of  it,  to  see  it  about 
so  much ;  and  if  I  would  like  to  have  her,  she 
would  buy  me  something  a  little  different,  but  just 
as  pretty;  and  she  bought  that  one  you  like  so 
much." 

"  Mrs.  Roberts  never  would  take  that  trouble 
for  me,  if  I  went  without  clothes ;  and  I  do  n't 
want  her  to.  She  would  n't  get  the  fashionable 
ones.  I  have  to  work  like  a  dog,  and  I  mean  to 
take  some  comfort  out  of  it." 

"  Do  n't  you  like  your  place  ?  " 

"  No  ;  they  do  n't  pay  me  wages  enough.  I  am 
going  to  leave,  and  do  n't  mean  to  go  out  a  cent 
under  two  dollars  ! " 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS.  2?C 

"  You  know  what  aunt  Baily  told  us  about  run- 
ning round  for  higher  wages." 

"  No,  —  I  've  forgotten." 

"  She  said,  it  reminded  her  of  the  huckleberry- 
parties  in  the  country  ;  those  who  ran  round  the 
most  after  thick  spots,  came  home  with  baskets 
half-filled,  while  those  who  kept  in  one  place  that 
was  good  enough,  filled  both  basket  and  dipper." 

"I  guess  I  must  be  going,"  said  Lucy  —  arrang- 
ing the  elegant  shawl ;  "  when  are  you  coming  to 
see  me  ?  " 

"  I  '11  come  to-morrow-noon,  if  you  '11  do  as  I 
want  you  to  ! " 

"  No,  I  should  n't  like  to  be  tied  down  to  one 
church,  —  and  I  walk  Sunday  noons  ;  it  is  about 
all  the  time  I  do  get  to  dress  up  and  go  out." 

Ruth  tried  to  persuade  her  ;  and  told  her  what 
right  pleasant  times  they  had  at  their  class-meet- 
ings and  sewing  circles,  —  but  she  could  not  in- 
fluence her  at  all,  —  her  head  was  full  of  her  new 
finery. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  think  better  of  it,  and  want 
me  to  buy  you  something  decent,  Ruth ;  if  you  do, 
let  me  know." 

"  When  my  ship  comes  in,"  said  Ruth,  smiling, 
—  and  they  parted. 


VIII. 

A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES. 

MATTERS  had  gone  on  for  many  months  in  Mrs 
Fay's  family  with  little  change,  and  thus  far  Ruth 
had  had  smooth  travelling  ;  but  towards  spring  she 
met  with  up-hill  work.  The  baby  took  cold,  and 
was  very  ill  for  a  time.  He  was  contented  with 
no  one  excepting  his  mother  and  Ruth,  and  they 
shared  the  labor  of  nursing  him.  Before  he  was 
well,  and  while  still  very  fretful,  Mrs.  Fay  was 
taken  sick,  and  for  a  few  weeks  was  alarmingly 
ill.  Watchers  and  a  nurse  were  provided ;  and 
Ruth  was  kept  with  the  children^  who  by  this  time 
were  all  of  them  ailing.  It  was  when  all  excite- 
ment from  danger  was  past,  that  the  hardest  time 
came  for  Ruth.  She  was  worn  down  by  broken 
nights  and  anxious  days ;  the  children  hung  round 
her  continually,  now  their  mother  was  out  of  the 
way  ;  and  if  anything  needed  setting  to  rights  in 
the  house,  she  was  called  upon.  Additional  work 
had  made  Kate,  the  cook,  very  cross  ;  so  that  Ruth 
felt  glad  to  keep  out  of  her  way.  One  day  Kate 
came  into  the  nursery  to  give  her  a  scolding,  be- 


THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS.  277 

cause  she  had  left  her  saucepan  and  glasses  in 
the  kitchen  without  washing  them. 

"You  know  I  could  not,  Kate,  for  the  baby 
cried  and  I  had  to  run  !  " 

"  That 's  what  you  always  say,"  said  Kate , 
"  and  I  've  made  up  my  mind  to  get  another  place. 
I  wont  hire  where  I  have  to  do  all  the  second 
girl's  work." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  Mrs.  Fay  gets 
well,"  said  Ruth. 

Kate  made  no  reply,  but  went  out,  slamming  the 
door  after  her.  Baby  was  asleep,  and  Ruth  sat 
by  his  cradle,  with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  —  and 
the  tears  began  to  flow.  It  seemed  to  her,  that 
she  could  not  stand  it  any  longer ;  '  take  it  all 
round,  she  had  more  than  she  could  bear.'  She 
thought  of  her  home,  and  her  father  and  mother, 
with  real  heart-yearnings.  A  few  hours'  ride,  and 
she  might  be  there  !  She  thought  she  would  go 
home  ;  she  was  tired  of  living  out.  She  had  laid 
up  money,  and  could  go  now  with  a  good  con- 
science. She  began  to  imagine  just  where  they 
would  be  when  she  entered  the  house,  and  how 
surprised  they  would  look,  —  and  how  the  boys 
•would  spring,  and  what  they  would  say  to  her. 
And  then  she  fell  to  counting  how  many  days  it 
would  probably  be  before  Mrs.  Fay  would  be  well 
enough  to  spare  her.  The  nursery  door  softly 
24 


278  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

opened,  and  Miss  Darling's  pleasant  face  peeped 
in: — 

"  You  here,  Ruth, "  said  she,  in  a  whisper,  "  and 
baby  asleep  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ruth,  wiping  her  eyes  quickly,  — 
"  do  come  in  —  O,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  ! " 

Miss  Darling  stepped  gently  in,  and  closed  the 
door.  She  had  a  large  bundle  under  her  arm. 
"  What  do  you  think  this  is  ?  "  said  she,  laughing 
"  It 's  my  work,  and  now  I  am  going  to  take  care 
of  the  children  all  the  evening,  and  I  want  you  to 
get  ready  to  go  to  your  sewing-society.  They  all 
want  you ;  and  Mr.  Fay  is  going  to  help  me  about 
the  baby,  if  he  worries." 

Ruth's  feelings  were  all  afloat,  —  and  at  this  un- 
expected kindness  she  burst  into  tears  again. 

"  I  do  believe  I  am  a  fool,"  said  she  the  next 
minute  —  half  laughing  and  half  crying.  "  But  I 
had  got  clear  discouraged,  and  I  was  just  thinking 
I  wouldn't  live  out  any  more,  —  I  would  go  home 
as  soon  as  Mrs.  Fay  was  well  enough  to  spare 
me." 

u  Hoity  toity  !  "  said  Miss  Darling.  "  You  must 
take  life  as  it  comes, — hard  and  easy,  up  and  down, 
light  and  dark,  —  go  where  you  will." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Ruth  ;  "  but  somehow,  yon 
can  stand  it  better  to  take  care  of  your  own  sick 
folks." 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  279 

"0  well !  sickness  does  n't  last  forever ;  and  be- 
sides, when  we  go  to  live  in  a  family,  it  is  best  to 
think  they  are  '  our  folks,'  is  n't  it,  and  take  life 
with  them  as  it  comes  ?  You  have  not  had  any 
extra  trouble  before,  since  you  have  been  here, 
have  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  n't  had  any  to  speak  of,  excepting 
Kate.  She  has  been  very  cross  since  Mrs.  Fay 
began  to  get  better.  Just  before  you  came  in,  she 
was  in  here  giving  me  a  real  blowing  up  because 
a  sauce-pan  was  n't  washed.  I  sometimes  think  I 
cannot  get  along  with  her,  and  I  wont  try,"  said 
Ruth,  warming  up  a  little ;  "  she  says  she  is  going 
off,  and  I  do  n't  care  if  she  does !  " 

Miss  Darling  had  by  this  time  laid  aside  her 
things,  and  sat  down  to  her  work.  She  laughed  a 
little  at  Ruth's  earnest  voice. 

"  Come  ! "  said  she,  "  go  and  dress  before  dark  ; 
you  are  tired  out ;  a  little  change  will  make  the 
whole  world  look  brighter  to  you.  Kate's  temper 
is  the  last  thing  to  be  unhappy  about.  Let  her 
blow  ;  just  take  in  sail,  and  lie  on  your  oars.  Have 
nothing  to  say  to  her  when  she 's  cross.  She 
hurts  herself  a  hundred  fold  more  than  she  does 
you.  I  feel  sorry  for  these  poor  girls  who  let  their 
tempers  get  the  upper-hand  so  ;  it  is  a  great  mis- 
fortune to  them." 

Ruth  had  uever  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  being 


280  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

sony  for  Kate,  but  she  had  been,  provoked  many 
a  time,  and  she  was  not  now  in  a  mood  to  be  very 
charitable. 

"  It  is  pretty  hard,"  said  she,  in  a  martyr-like 
voice, "  to  bear  it  quietly  always.  Girls  who  live 
out  have  to  put  up  with  a  good  deal." 

"  And  so  do  those  who  do  n't  live  out,"  said  Miss 
Darling.  "  We  all  must  have  our  trials  in  this 
world;  the  girls  in  the  kitchen  must  have  just  the 
the  ones  they  will  feel ;  and  the  ladies  in  the 
parlor,  just  such  as  they  feel.  You  may  think 
theirs  would  be  no  trial  to  you,  and  perhaps  they 
would  n't ;  and  that  is  the  reason  you  do  n't  have 
them  ;  and  they  may  think  just  so  of  your  troubles, 
—  but  that  does  not  make  them  any  the  less 
troubles  to  you.  Now,  my  little  Ruth,  let  me  tell 
you ;  if  you  had  n't  Kate's  temper  to  put  up  witb, 
you  certainly  would  have  something  else  ;  and  all 
that  we  can  do  with  our  trials,  is  just  to  watch  our 
own  hearts  and  see  that  we  get  all  the  good  from 
them  which  God  meant  we  should;  don't  you 
think  so?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  do,"  said  Ruth,  looking  a  lit- 
tle brighter. 

"  Well,  then,  on  the  strength  of  that,  run  and 
get  dressed  ;  we  are  using  the  daylight  all  up  with 
our  talk." 

Just  as  Ruth  had  finished  braiding  her  hair,  her 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  281 

eye  fell  upon  her  Bible.  She  felt  as  if  she  would 
like  to  read  a  few  verses,  and  pray  before  she  went 
out ;  she  hardly  knew  why  !  She  softly  drew  the 
bolt  to  the  door  and  did  so.  The  truth  was,  she 
had  recently  had  many  serious  thoughts  on  life 
and  death,  as  she  sat  by  the  sick  beds ;  and, 
somehow  or  other,  Miss  Darling  always  made  her 
feel  as  if  "  she  wished  she  was  a  child  of  God." 

She  went  to  the  sewing-circle  and  had  a  de- 
lightful time.  Mr.  Clark  came  in,  the  latter  part 
of  the  evening  ;  and  this  added  much  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  class.  He  closed  the  meeting  with 
an  appropriate  prayer,  to  every  word  of  which 
Ruth  listened,  —  and  unobserved  by  any  one,  the 
softened  state  of  her  heart  made  the  tears  come. 

Some  of  her  companions  walked  home  with  her, 
and  as  she  entered  the  nursery  her  bright  coun- 
tenance showed  how  much  she  had  enjoyed. 

"  You  look  fifty-per-cent  better,"  said  Miss  Dar- 
ling ;  "  and  we  have  had  a  fine  time  of  it ;  baby 
has  been  up  with  his  father  here,  most  all  the 
evening,  wide  awake,  and  in  a  great  frolic.  I 
think  we  have  cured  him  for  you  !" 


24* 


IX. 

A   CHANGE. 

THE  baby  and  the  baby's  mother  rapidly  recov 
ered.  Kate  made  a  few  inquiries  about  a  new 
place  ;  and,  probably,  finding  none  to  suit  her,  said 
no  more  about  leaving.  Brighter  days  had  dawn- 
ed, which  all  the  household  seemed  to  feel  except- 
ing Ruth.  She  was  unusually  silent,  and  frequently 
sad.  Mrs.  Fay  often  inquired,  "  if  she  were  quite 
well?"  She  would  answer  somewhat  hastily  — 
"  Yes."  Now  it  was  observed,  that  she  came  in 
much  oftener  to  prayer  —  and  "  Philip's  Guides" 
were  found  in  her  work-basket.  Sometimes,  Kate 
teased  her  about  her  red  eyes,  and  would  have  it 
that  she  had  been  crying ! 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Kate  was  right.  Ruth 
wept  often  in  secret,  for  she  was  deeply  anxious 
about  the  salvation  of  her  soul.  She  realized  that 
all  this  saying  her  prayers,  and  reading  her  Bible 
night  and  morning,  and  wishing  she  was,  and  de- 
termining she  some  time  would  be,  a  Christian, 
would  not  make  her  one. 

Either  by  her  teacher  or  friend,  she  had  been 
led  to  think  much  of  God,  and  of  His  charac- 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  283 

ter ;  —  when  all  at  once,  suddenly,  as  it  were  in 
an  instant,  such  a  view  of  His  infinite  holiness 
opened  upon  her  —  and  of  what  He  required 
of  her  —  and  how  sinful  she  was,  that  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  terror !  These  few  words,  "My 
heart  is  at  enmity  with  God,"  which  she  felt  now 
in  her  inmost  soul,  plunged  her  into  despair.  Her 
past  life  was  so  full  of  sin,  and  the  future  seemed 
so  full  of  woe,  she  often  wished  that  she  had  never 
been  born.  If  God  had  only  made  her  to  be  a  lit- 
tle canary  bird,  like  the  one  that  mocked  her  with 
his  blithe  notes,  in  aunt  Baily's  cage,  she  thought 
she  should  have  been  happy. 

In  this  wretched  state  of  mind,  she  went  one 
evening  to  see  Miss  Darling. 

"  Why  Ruth  !  "  said  she,  as  soon  as  she  looked  at 
her,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

Ruth  made  no  reply,  —  but  sinking  down  into  a 
chair,  burst  into  tears.  Miss  Darling  kindly  sooth- 
ed her,  took  oif  her  things,  and  led  her  to  speak 
calmly.  She  soon  knew  the  whole  truth :  "  I  am 
so  great  a  sinner,  I  cannot  come  to  God,  and  love 
Him  —  I  dare  not !  It  seems  to  me,  I  cannot  live 
so,  —  and  yet,  how  can  I  die  ?  " 

Miss  Darling,  with  a  tremulous  voice  and  a  heart 
full  of  feeling,  spoke  to  her  of  the  Saviour,  —  but 
it  was  all  dark  to  Ruth  — "  My  heart  is  full  of 
enmity,  and  I  cannot  come  to  Him." 


284  THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

Miss  Darling  put  aside  her  evening's  work,  and 
opened  her  Bible.  With  much  discrimination  she 
selected  a  few  passages,  tvhich  she  read.  Ruth 
listened,  —  those  were  very  precious  words  ;  but 
still,  all  was  dark  —  she,  somehow,  could  not  feel 
them ! 

"  We  are  alone,  Miss  Darling,"  said  Ruth  at 
length,  —  "  and  I  wish  you  would  pray  with  me." 

Miss  Darling  did  so.  She  was  a  praying  Chris- 
tian ;  and  she  expressed,  in  fervent  language, 
Ruth's  wants. 

Ruth  rose  somewhat  comforted.  She  saw  novr, 
what  she  had  not  seen  before,  just  what  she  needed 
to  pray  for. 

Before  they  separated,  Miss  Darling  advised  her 
to  go  the  next  evening  to  a  private  inquiry  meet- 
ing, at  her  pastor's  house.  Ruth  had  for  some  time 
wished  to  do  this,  but  had  felt  afraid.  Miss  Dar- 
ling pressed  it,  and  she  promised  that  she  would 
do  so  if  she  could  be  spared. 

To  make  this  easy  for  her,  Miss  Darling  slipped 
in,  on  her  way  to  her  work,  at  breakfast  time,  to 
give  Mrs.  Fay  an  intimation  of  Ruth's  object  in 
asking  to  go  ou  t  again  so  soon.  So  that  when  evening 
came, —  and  she  asked  with  evident  embarrassment 
if  she  could  be  spared  a  little  while,  after  the  chil- 
dren were  asleep, —  Mrs.  Fay  told  her  with  an  ex- 
pressive look  —  "  Certainly,  I  am  very  glad  to 
have  you  go." 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  285 

It  seemed  to  poor  Ruth  as  if  everybody  were  kind 
to  her  now,  and  took  an  unusual  degree  of  interest 
in  her;  and  she  felt  so  unworthy  of  it  she  could 
scarcely  bear  it. 

Baby  was  early  asleep  ;  and  Alice  and  Robert 
had  leave  to  sit  up  awhile.  Ruth  retired  to  her 
little  room  before  going  out.  She  knelt  alone  to 
pray  —  alone  with  God. 

"  O  God,"  prayed  she,  —  "I  cannot  save  myself, 
— can  I  find  a  Saviour?  He  who  died  for  guilty 
sinners,  can  it  be  that  He  died  for  me  ?  Dear 
Christ !  wilt  Thou  take  me  just  as  I  am,  so  sinful 
and  wicked,  and  make  me  fit  to  love  Thee  ?  Wilt 
thou  take  me  ?  "  said  she,  with  a  choking  voice  and 
a  flood  of  tears.  Light  began  to  break  in  upon 
her.  She  went  hastily  out,  and  walked  with  a  quick 
step  to  the  pastor's  house.  It  was  a  bright  moon- 
light evening  ;  she  forgot  she  was  alone  ;  and,  also, 
her  dread  of  this  meeting. 

She  was  the  first  one  there.  The  pastor  met 
her  very  kindly,  though  she  was  a  stranger  to  him. 
He  sat  down  by  her,  and  led  her  into  conversation. 
She  felt  no  fear  of  him  :  she  was  herself  surprised 
to  see  how  freely  she  talked  with  him.  She  told 
him  how  she  had  felt — "  And  how  is  it  now  ?  "  he 
asked.  Then,  in  simple  language  she  gave  utter- 
ance to  feelings  which  had  seemed  to  be  all  in  com- 
motion, since  she  left  her  room.  He  heard  her 


THK    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

with  deep  interest.  "  You  have  then  given  your- 
self to  Christ,  have  you  ?  Do  you  look  to  Him  as 
your  only  Saviour  ?  Do  you  believe  that  He  is 
able  and  willing  to  save  you,  and  are  you  willing  to 
let  Him  do  it  in  His  own  way  ?  Is  that  the  feel- 
ing you  have  about  it  ? 

"  O  if  he  will  only  take  me ! "  said  she ;  "  it 
seems  to  me,  that  I  love  Him  now,  with  all  my 
soul ! " 

Soon,  others  entered,  and  the  pastor  could  not 
converse  longer  with  her,  then.  "  Keep  near  to 
God,"  said  he  in  a  low  and  solemn  tone,  as  he  left 
her. 

She  went  out,  and  shut  the  door  hastily ;  she 
could  not  say  '  good  evening.'  "  Had  Christ,  then, 
accepted  her  ?  '  Keep  near  to  God ! '  —  Was  she 
then  a  Christian  ?  and  if  so,  O,  could  she  live 
away  from  Him,  who  had  forgiven  her  sins  ?  " 

Ruth  felt  inexpressibly  calm  and  happy.  She 
looked  up  on  the  beautiful  moon  half-wistfully,  as 
if  she  thought  somewhere  round  in  that  region  of 
light  might  be  seen  this  dear  Saviour  whom  she 
had  now  found. 


X. 


FRUITS. 

AND  this  was  a  new  birth.  Ruth  was  greatly 
changed,  —  as  she  expressed  it,  "  Such  a  load  was 
gone ! "  The  burden  of  her  sins  was  laid  upon 
"  one  who  is  mighty  to  save  ;"  and  like  poor 
Pilgrim,  she  now  went  on  her  way  rejoicing.  For 
some  days,  her  face  seemed  almost  radiant  with  an 
expression  of  deep,  calm  joy.  The  tones  of  her 
voice  were  softened  and  musical ;  —  she  was  living 
those  blissful  hours  which  succeed  the  change  from 
death  to  life,  —  which  in  the  heart  of  the  new-born 
soul  leave  their  memory  forever. 

Ruth  had  now  just  as  much  work  as  ever  to  d<> 
and  rather  more  than  formerly,  for  the  spring 
opened;  but  she  found  she  had  time  to  love  God. and 
to  think  of  Him,  and  to  serve  Him.  She  found 
that  true  piety  consists  in  the  habits  of  thought 
and  feeling  which  we  cherish,  more  than  in  any- 
thing we  are  doing.  She  looked  back  upon  her 
past  life  with  surprise ;  she  did  not  see  how  she 
could  have  been  happy  when  she  was  loving  her- 
self more  than  God.  Then,  she  was  quite  satis- 
fied if  she  laid  by  money  for  her  father,  a»d 
pleased  Mrs.  Fay.  All  this  was  right;  but  her 


288  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

heart  beat  quickly  when  thinking  of  these  things 
now  ;  because  she  felt  as  if  she  now  had  so  much 
more  to  live  for.  Her  common  round  of  duties 
became  dignified  and  important,  in  her  view  ;  true, 
it  was  a  very  little  thing  to  do  them  faithfully  and 
well ;  but  when  she  did  so,  because  she  thought  it 
would  please  Christ  to  see  her  '  diligent  in  business, 
fervent  in  spirit,'  —  it  was  to  her  no  longer  a 
trifle. 

From  the  pure  fountain,  flow  sweet  waters. 
Ruth  had  always  been  so  good,  Mrs.  Fay  did  not 
think  piety  would  make  much  change  in  her.  But 
in  this  she  was  mistaken.  In  all  her  conduct,  holy 
motive  silently  made  itself  felt. 

Ruth  found  now,  that  as  in  other  things,  so  in  the 
matter  of  attending  family  prayers,  where  there 
i?  a  will  there  is  generally  a  way ;  and  at  night, 
also,  by  a  little  good  calculation,  she  could  lay  by 
her  sewing  in  season  to  study  her  Bible  awhile. 
She  found  by  experience  that,  though  often  tired, 
yet  on  the  whole  she  could  study  a  little,  even  if 
but  a  verse  or  two,  with  more  profit  to  herself  than 
in  the  morning;  for  then  her  thoughts  were  dis- 
turbed and  hurried  by  her  work. 

Let  Kate,  the  cook,  have  had  ever  so  hard  a 
day  of  it,  she  always  found  time  to  repeat  long 
prayers  before  she  went  to  bed ;  and  this  first  led 
Ruth  to  think  that  she  also  might  redeem  a  few 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN'S.  289 

precious  moments  for  her  religious  duties,  either 
from  her  sleep  or  her  sewing. 

It  distressed  Ruth  very  much  to  hear  Kate  re- 
peating long  prayers  of  which  she  understood 
nothing.  At  first  it  seemed  to  her,  that  she  must 
persuade  Kate  to  come  for  the  pardoning  of  her 
sins  to  that  Saviour  whom  she  had  found, "  who 
alone  is  able  to  forgive."  Full  of  zeal,  and  warmly 
anxious  to  persuade  Kate,  she  one  day  attempted 
to  convince  her  that  she  was  wrong;  but  she  found 
that  she  did  not  understand  the  subject  at  all.  She 
could  not  begin  to  reason  with  her ;  Kate  got  angry, 
and  quite  overwhelmed  her  with  proofs  that  a  good 
Roman  Catholic  was  sure  of  heaven. 

"  You  believe  what  your  priest  tells  you,  and  1 
believe  what  my  priest  tells  me,"  said  she. 

Ruth  left  the  kitchen  much  disheartened. 

"  You  had  better  not  try  to  argue  with  her," 
said  Mrs.  Fay.  "  Avoid  all  discussion ;  but  let 
her  see  that  yours  is  a  religion  of  the  heart,  and 
not  of  form.  Live  the  Christian,  and  pray  for  her. 
This  is  all  you  can  do  for  her,  and  God  may  bless 
these  means  to  her  conversion." 

This  change  in  Ruth  was  seen  in  her  inter- 
course with  the  children.  She  told  them  as  many 
stories,  and  played  with  them  as  much  as  ever ; 
but  now,  she  was  so  often  thinking  of  God,  that 
almost  unconsciously  she  very  frequently  gave  a 
25 


290  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

religious  turn  to  what  was  going  on  ;  and  this  she 
did  in  a  simple,  natural  and  happy  manner,  which 
surprised  Mrs.  Fay.  If  she  had  known  Ruth's 
mother,  however,  and  how  she  had  managed  with 
her  family,  she  would  have  ceased  to  wonder. 

Ruth  wrote  home,  in  the  fullness  of  her  joy,  to 
tell  of  her  hope  in  Christ.  She  received  in  reply 
a  joint  letter  from  father  and  mother ;  good,  and 
full  of  comfort  and  good  advice.  On  her  mother's 
page,  now  and  then  tears  had  dropped ;  and  Ruth 
shed  more  over  it.  She  carried  her  letter  in  her 
bosom,  and  read  it  so  often  that  at  length  it  was 
quite  worn  out. 

They  wished  her  to  come  home  in  August  and 
make  a  visit.  She  mentioned  this  to  Mrs.  Fay, 
and  found  that  it  would  be  sadly  inconvenient  for 
her  to  spare  her  then,  as  she  needed  her  more  than 
through  any  other  summer  month.  Ruth  at  once 
decided  not  to  go,  and  wrote  saying,  "  that  all 
things  considered,  she  thought  it  would  be  best  for 
her  to  defer  her  visit  till  another  year."  Mrs.  Fay 
was  much  pleased  with  this  considerateness,  and 
at  once  carried  into  effect  a  plan  which  she  had  for 
some  time  had  in  mind,  by  which  she  could  raise 
Ruth's  wajres. 


XI. 

A   TEA   VISIT. 

Ix  the  spring  the  two  cousins  were  invited  to 
take  tea  with  aunt  Bailj.  Ruth  went  early, 
and  took  Alice  with  her.  She  was  received  by 
her  kind  aunt  in  the  same  little  room  where  she 
first  went  on  coming  to  Boston.  It  was  now 
as  then,  neat  and  cheerful ;  and  the  thriving  ge- 
raniums in  the  window  almost  supplied  the  place 
cf  the  lilac-tree.  Ruth  took  her  seat  by  them,  and 
soon  unfolded  her  sewing.  Aunt  Baily  gave  Alice 
bright  bits  of  paper,  and  taught  her  how  to  make 
fly-catchers. 

Before  long,  the  conversation  seemed  to  fall  into 
a  serious  vein.  Ruth  spoke  to  her  aunt  freely  of 
the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  her  feelings, 
and  that  she  was  hoping  soon  to  make  a  public  pro- 
fession of  her  faith  in  Christ.  Her  aunt  sat  and 
wiped  her  eyes.  "  She  was  thinking,"  she  said, 
"  how  glad  her  father  and  mother  would  be  ;  and 
how  her  father,  good  old  man,  would  pray  when 
he  heard  the  news.  Brother  Hiram  never  could 
keep  anything  to  himself,  —  but  if  he  was  happy, 


202  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

he  must  go  right  away  and  tell  God  all  about  it, 
and  thank  Him  for  it." 

Thus  talking,  an  hour  slipped  quickly  away,  and 
both  began  to  wonder  why  Lucy  did  not  come. 
At  length  she  made  her  appearance,  slowly  walk- 
ing up  the  yard  with  another  girl,  who  was  gaudily 
dressed  and  had  a  bold  look  about  her.  They 
seemed  to  be  talking  very  busily,  for  they  stood 
some  time  on  the  steps  before  parting. 

"Who  is  that  girl,  Lucy  ?"  was  aunt  Baily's 
first  question. 

"  Nancy  Everett,  a  friend  of  mine,"  was  the 
reply,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  say,  "  It  is  none 
of  your  business." 

Though  Lucy's  friends  were  glad  to  see  her,  yet 
there  was  something  in  her  manner  and  appear- 
ance which  threw  a  damper  over  them.  She  wore, 
to  be  sure,  her  best  finery,  but  it  was  tumbled  and 
worn,  and  gave  her  a  neglected  air  which  increased 
her  depressed  expression.  She  did  not  enter  very 
heartily  into  conversation,  had  brought  no  work, 
and  at  first  made  some  ineffectual  efforts  to  amuse 
herself  with  Alice ;  the  child,  however,  took  no 
great  liking  to  her. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on,  Lucy?"  said  Ruth  at 
length,  kindly. 

"  Well  enough,"  was  the  short  reply. 

"  Now  I  a'nt  a-going  to  have  a  bit  of  this,"  said 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  299 

her  aunt ;  "  something  or  other  don't  go  straight,  so 
out  with  it,  and  let  us  know  the  whole  story. 
There  is  nobody  in  Boston  cares  as  much  for  you 
as  we  do." 

"  Do  n't  know  about  that,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  pe- 
culiar toss  of  her  head. 

Aunt  Baily  eyed  her  keenly ;  u  1  have  it,"  said 
she  to  herself. 

"  Do  you  like  where  you  are  now,  better  than 
you  did  at  Mrs.  Roberts's  ?  "  asked  Ruth. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Going  to  leave  ! "  said  her  aunt ;  "  what 's  that 
for,  pray,  when  you  are  getting  ten-and-six  a 
week?" 

"  Can't  help  that,  —  I  go  to-morrow." 

"  And  now,"  said  aunt  Baily,  "  I  must  know  all 
about  it ;  it  wont  do  to  be  running  about  in  this 
manner,  and  changing  your  places  every  month ; 
you  will  lose  your  character  by  and  by,  and  wont 
be  able  to  get  a  good  situation  anywhere." 

"Mrs.  Mason  says  I  don't  suit,"  said  Lucy, 
bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears,  which  she  had  been 
vainly  trying  to  brave  out;  "and  I  am  sure  I  can- 
not tell  any  body  what  the  reason  is.  I  have  done 
my  best  to  try  to  please  her.  She  finds  no  fault, 
—  she  only  tells  me  I  must  go.  I  would  leave  to- 
night, if  you  would  take  me  to  board  until  I  can 
get  a  place." 

25* 


291  THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

Mrs.  Baily  looked  very  sober.  This  would 
make  the  third  time,  within  a  few  months,  that  she 
had  given  Lucy  a  home  until  she  could  find  a  place. 

"  I  am  a  going  to  look  into  this,  Lucy,"  said  she, 
u  and  I  must  go  now ;  I  sha'n't  have  any  more 
time  this  week ;  if  one  of  you  will  put  on  the  tea- 
kettle, I  will  run  up  before  tea." 

Lucy  did  not  say  whether  she  wished  she 
would,  or  would  not ;  so  aunt  Baily  took  her  own 
way.  When  she  returned,  the  girls  bad  the  tea 
all  ready,  and  they  sat  down  at  once  to  the  table. 
Lucy  colored  a  little  when  she  entered,  but  made 
no  inquiries. 

Ruth  thought  her  aunt  seemed  waiting  for  some 
one  to  ask  a  question ;  so  she  ventured  at  length 
to  say,  "  Did  you  see  Mrs.  Mason  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  she ;  "  I  had  a  long  talk  with  her 
about  it ;  and  now,  Lucy,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
just  what  she  said,  good  and  bad.  I  think  it  will 
be  best  all  round.  She  said  you  were  a  strong, 
capable  girl ;  could  do  everything  she  required  of 
you,  and  do  it  well,  if  you  only  had  a  mind  to ; 
but  the  trouble  was,  you  had  n't  a  mind  to.  Your 
head  was  full  of  other  things  ;  you  took  no  interest 
in  your  work,  and  were  careless  and  forgetful ; 
and  that  it  gave  her  so  much  trouble  to  look  after 
you,  she  must  change  hands." 

"  She  meant  to  tell  her  own  side  of  it,  I  guess,'' 
said  Lucy,  in  rather  an  irritated  tone. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIXS.  295 

Aunt  Baily  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  went 
straight  on  with  her  story. 

"  She  says  your  passion  for  dress  is  a  great  in- 
jury to  you.  That  you  commonly  hurry  through 
your  morning  work,  so  as  to  r-pend  an  hour  or  so 
before  dinner  fixing  you  up  ;  and  then  you  have  so 
much  to  do  in  making  and  altering  your  dresses, 
and  rigging  out  something  or  other,  that  every 
minute  you  can  catch,  down  you  sit  to  your  sew- 
ing; that  you  sit  up  late  at  night,  and  it  gives 
them  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  you  up  in  the 
morning." 

"  She  lies,  there,"  said  Lucy,  in  an  under  tone. 

Perhaps  aunt  Baily  did  n't  hear,  —  she  took  no 
notice  of  the  remark,  but  proceeded  —  "  She  says 
that  she  never  can  send  you  out  on  an  errand  in 
the  morning,  because  you  will  stop  to  dreis  all  up 
in  you<-  best,  and  keep  her  waiting  so  long." 

"Well,  who's  a  going  into  the  street  looking 
like  a  scarecrow?  Not  I,  I  can  tell  her,  if  she 
does  have  to  wait." 

"  And  she  says,"  continued  aunt  Baily,  "  that 
you  are  troublesome  to  the  young  ladies  ;  that  you 
are  always  talking  to  them  about  their  dress,  and 
asking  the  price  of  everything,  and  where  it  was 
bought:  and  when  you  can  buy  anything  like 
theirs,  you  do ;  and  she  thinks  it  would  be  better 
for  you  to  live  in  a  place  where  there  are  no  youn~ 


296  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

ladies,  and  where  you  will  not  have  so  much 
temptation  to  spend  your  money  foolishly." 

"  My  money  is  my  own,  and  I  guess  I  can  do  as 
I  Ve  a  mind  to  with  it,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Then  she  spoke  about  the  manner  in  which 
you  spend  your  Sabbaths.  She  said  it  had  tried 
her  exceedingly,  for  she  could  not  persuade  you  to 
do  differently,  and  to  go  to  church.  She  says  you 
go  out  then,  and  at  other  times,  with  a  young  man, 
and  a  girl  whom  he  calls  his  sister  ;  and  that  you 
spend  your  time  strolling  about  the  streets  with 
them ;  that  you  have  twice,  lately,  been  to  the 
theatre  with  him,  and  she  had  not  found  it  out  un- 
til day  before  yesterday.  She  thinks  you  have 
fallen  into  bad  company  and  bad  habits ;  and  1  am 
afraid  she  is  right  about  it  !  " 

"It  is  none  of  her  business  what  company  I 
keept"  said  Lucy. 

"Well,  it  is  some  of  mine,  if  it  is  n't  hers,"  said 
her  aunt.  "  I  do  n't  want  to  see  my  brother's  gray 
hairs  brought  down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
You  are  on  the  road  to  ruin  and  if  you  do  n't  mend 
your  courses  you  '11  be  there,  and  no  mistake. 
Mind  what  I  tell  you  now ;  there's  no  two  waya 
about  it." 

Ruth  and  her  aunt  were  both  alarmed  by  this 
account  of  Lucy.  They  pleaded  with  her  earn- 
estly, to  promise  them  she  would  never  again  go 
and  this  she  at  !c::pt!  «cL 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  297 

No  entreaties,  however,  would  prevail  upon  her 
to  promise  to  attend  church  on  the  Sabbath.  "  She 
worked  all  the  week,"  she  said,  "  and  she  would 
have  that  -lay  to  enjoy  herself  in." 

As  soon  as  they  began  to  speak  about  her  break- 
ing off  her  acquaintance  with  that  young  man,  of 
whom  she  acknowledged  she  knew  nothing  except 
what  he  himself  had  told  her,  she  rose  to  go. 

It  was  now  dark,  and  near  Alice's  bed-time. 
Ruth,  therefore,  stud  she  would  walk  along  with 
her. 

"I  mean  to  have  you  come  here,  Lucy,"  said 
aunt  Baily.  "  Come  right  back  here,  and  stay  un- 
til you  get  a  place.  This  is  the  only  proper  home 
for  you.  I  never  will  desert  my  brother's  child, 
if  she  do  n't  do  right." 

Ruth  tried  again  to  persuade  I  ucy  to  join  their 
Sabbath  School,  and  enter  that  i  n-cle  where  were 
so  many  excellent  girls,  and  where  she  had  found 
so  much  profit  and  enjoyment.  But  Lucy  would 
not  listen  to  it,  and  thus  the  cousins  parted. 


XII. 

HOW   MUCH   OUGHT   I   TO   DO? 

RUTH  did  not  find  that  everything  in  the  world 
was  to  go  smoothly  with  her  because  she  was  a 
Christian.  The  more  she  thought  about  herself, 
and  looked  into  her  own  heart  and  scrutinized  her 
motives,  the  more  sin  it  seemed  to  her  she  found 
there.  And  now,  if  strict  obedience  to  God's  holy 
law  would  alone  ensure  salvation,  —  how,  with 
such  a  heart,  could  she  be  saved  ! 

"01  could  not,"  she  would  sometimes  say, "  if  I 
had  not  the  Saviour  to  come  to, — I  should  perish." 
Her  faith  in  Christ,  and  love  for  him  never  waver- 
ed ;  but  she  realized  more  and  more,  day  by  day, 
that  the  Christian's  course  here  must  be  a  conflict. 
It  was  not  always  easy  to  do  just  what  she  knew 
was  right,  —  and  to  feel  what  was  right.  Some- 
times she  would  quite  lose  her  temper  with  Kate  ; 
then  she  would  go  away  and  mourn ;  she  felt  that 
she  had  brought  a  reproach  upon  the  name  of 
Christ.  Sometimes  fretful  thoughts  would  rise  in 
her  mind,  when  things  went  crookedly  around  her, 
and  she  would  often  seem  to  have  lost  the  light  of 
God's  countenance,  and  be  walking  in  darkness 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  299 

Then  she  would  seek  Him  with  tears,  and  make 
fresh  promises  of  a  new  obedience  ;  yet  in  these 
very  struggles  there  was  a  deep,  settled  satisfac- 
tion, in  the  conviction  that  she  had,  as  she  said. 
"  got  hold  of  the  right  thing  to  live  for,"  and  thai 
she  was  steadily  pursuing  that  object  for  which  she 
had  been  born.  There  was  a  sel£4ustaining  power 
in  this  conviction  which,  amid  all  her  trials,  gave 
to  her  a  certain  elevation  of  character. 

At  one  time,  Ruth  was  sorely  troubled  to  know 
just  what  was  her  duty  in  reference  to  the  various 
objects  of  Christian  benevolence  and  effort.  One 
of  her  class-mates,  named  Caroline,  was  very  for- 
ward and  active  in  all  these  matters.  She  gave 
her  hand  to  every  good  work,  —  thinking  she 
would,  as  she  was  often  saying,  "  spend  and  be 
spent  for  the  Lord."  Caroline  attended  all  the 
church-meetings ;  she  was  a  Tract-distributer,  a 
Collector  for  one  or  two  Societies;  she  was  on 
the  Committee  for  visiting  poor  families  in  a  cer- 
tain district,  for  finding  out  the  children,  and  their 
various  necessities,  arid  having  them  brought  into 
the  Sabbath  School.  She  seemed  to  be  '  on  the 
g)'  the  whole  time  ;  she  had  good  health,  and  was 
for  the  most  part  at  liberty  to  do  as  she  pleased. 

She  felt  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  Ruth,  and 
was  constantly  urging  her  to  take  hold  of  some  of 
these  benevolent  enterprises.  Ruth  did  not  know 


THE    COCXTRT    COCSIXS. 

exactly  what  to  tell  her;  she  did  not  quite  see  her 
way  clear  to  do  so,  and  yet  did  not  like  to  refuse, 
lest  it  might  seem  to  Caroline  as  if  she  were  not 
sufficiently  interested  in  these  good  things. 

One  evening  at  their  sewing  circle,  Caroline  urged 
her  very  much  to  take  her  Tract  district ;  ibr  she 
had  been  requested  to  enter  a  larger  one.  "  You 
do  n't  know,"  said  she,  "  how  much  satisfaction 
there  is  in  distributing  these  good  books." 

"  I  know  there  must  be,''  said  Ruth  musingly. 

"  We  must  do  all  the  good  we  can,  while  we  are 
in  the  world,"  said  Caroline. 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Ruth.  "  Well,  I  '11  think 
about  it,  and  let  you  know  before  the  next  meeting." 

Before  Ruth  had  considered  this  matter,  Caro- 
line called  on  her.  "  I  have  come,"  said  she, 
laughing, — "I  want  to  know  if  you  will  do  my 
collecting  for  the  Jews  Society  for  the  next  month. 
Mary  Paul  is  sick,  and  I  must  take  her  part  of  it. 
Here  is  a  list  of  all  the  names  to  be  called  on." 

"  O  dear  !     How  long  will  it  take,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Why  not  more  than  two  afternoons." 

"  But  I  have  n't  got  the  two  afternoons  to  spare ; 
I  really  canndt." 

Caroline  did  not  seem  much  pleased.  "  She 
was  sure,"  she  said,  "  she  didn't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Well,  what  about  the  Tracts  ?  "  she  inquired  — 
'  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to  decide,"  said  Ruth. 


THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS.  301 

When  left  alone,  Ruth  thought,  and  thought, — 
but  the  palh  of  duty  did  not  appear.  It  was  a 
subject  which  she  had  frequently  prayed  about; 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  expecting  that  some 
clear  conviction  would  be  sent  in  answer  to  prayer. 

Finding  that  she  could  conveniently  be  spared 
in  the  evening,  she  ran  in  to  have  a  conversation 
with  Miss  Darling  about  her  perplexities. 

"  I  have  sought  to  know  what  is  my  duty,"  said 
she,  in  a  disappointed  tone;  "but  I  am  just  as 
much  in  the  dark  as  ever." 

"  God  had  given  us  our  wits  to  find  out  oar  duty 
with,"  said  Miss  Darling ;  "  and  if  we  do  n't  use 
them,  we  have  no  right  to  expect  that  he  will  take 
any  other  way  of  teaching  us.  Now  let  us  look  at 
this  matter  just  as  it  is.  See  what  it  is  you  are 
asked  to  do,  and  wish  to  do.  Here,  to  begin  with, 
is  church  all  day,  and  Sabbath  School,  and  lecture 
in  the  evening." 

"  Yes  ;"  said  Ruth,  "  only  I  can't  be  spared  to 
go  in  the  morning." 

"  Friday  evening,"  continued  Miss  Darling, — 
"  Church  meeting ;  Thursday  evening,  Subbath 
school  prayer-meeting;  and  every  other  Wednes- 
day, your  sewing  circle.  Once  a  month,  comes 
the  Missionary  concert.  Now  add  to  these  Tract- 
distributing  and  Jew-collecting,  and  how  much 
time  would  you  have  left  to  earn  your  living  in?  " 
26 


302  THE    COUNTRY    COFSIXS. 

"  Not  much,  to  be  sure ;"  said  Ruth,  laughing,  in 
spite  of  her  troubles,  at  the  odd  medley  Miss  P>ar- 
ling  made  of  it  all. 

"Then,  even  if  you  could  consistently  do  all 
this,  you  would  find  just  as  much  more  around  you 
to  be  done, —  so  that  you  would  have  to  come  to  a 
definite  understanding  of  your  duty  at  some  point 
on  your  way." 

u  That  is  a  fact  —  I  see  it  now,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Now  I  feel,"  said  Miss  Darling,  changing  her 
tone  a  little,  "  that  God  has  placed-  us  all  in  just 
those  situations  in  life,  which  are  best  for  us.  I 
work  with  my  needle,  and  must  work.  You  are 
hired  by  a  family ;  you  give  your  time  and  labor 
for  your  money,  and  this  is  your  lawful  calling. 
Now  certainly,  it  would  not  be  right  to  take  all  your 
time,  or  half  of  it  for  other  purposes,  and  yet  re- 
ceive your  wages;  that  is  all  plain  enough,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Suppose  now  that  Mrs.  Fay  should  think,  — 
'  Well,  it  is  all  for  good  objects  ;  I  '11  try  and  get 
along ;'  and  by  and  by  she  finds  that  she  had 
hired  only  the  help  she  needed,  and  that  she  can- 
not  do  without  it;  and  then  decides  that  what  she 
does  for  benevolent  purposes,  she  must  do  in  some 
other  way  than  giving  up  the  time  of  her  girl,  and 
tells  you  that  you  cannot  be  spared,  —  she  would 
be  doing  perfectly  right,  would  she  not  ?  " 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  303 

«  Certainly,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Then  —  is  it  your  duty  to  undertake  any  good 
work  which  you  must  do  with  time  which  does  not 
belong  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  n't  see  how  it  can  be ;  I  must  be 
honest  any  how,"  said  Ruth. 

"  So  far  then,  it  is  all  clear,"  said  Miss  Darling  ; 
"  and  now  the  next  question  is,  what  portion  of 
your  time  does  properly  belong  to  you,  and  what 
shall  you  do  with  that?" 

"  "Why  I  have  my  evenings  generally,  after  the 
children  are  asleep  ;  sometimes  I  have  a  stitch  or 
two  to  take,  that  has  broken  in  the  course  of  the 
day ;  and  occasionally  there  is  company  or  some- 
tiling  that  takes  up  my  time ;  but  I  can  depend  up- 
on one  or  two  good  hours  every  evening,  on  the 
average.  When  it  does  so  happen,  for  several 
days,  that  I  am  kept  occupied  longer  than  usual, 
Mrs.  Fay  seems  to  know  it,  and  generally  takes 
the  nursery  herself  and  gives  me  an  afternoon  to 
run  out  in ;  and  then  I  am  out  every  day  with  the 
children." 

"  Precisely  as  you  are  situated,"  said  Miss  Dar- 
ling, '*  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  take  the  work  of 
collecting  or  distributing  upon  you  without  taking 
time  for  it  which  does  not  belong  to  you.  That 
certainly  would  not  be  right.  It  seems  to  me  you 
may  set  your  heart  at  rest  on  that  matter,  if  you 


804  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

are  really  conscious  that  you  are  ready  and  willing 
to  do  everything  in  your  power  for  the  good  others. 
Here  now  are  two  ways  which  are  urged  upon 
you  ;  you  pray  that  you  may  have  a  right  spirit 
in  the  matter;  and  then  sit  down  calmly  and  ju- 
diciously to  see  if  you  can  meet  their  claims,  and 
find  you  cannot,  and  at  the  same  time  properly 
discharge  all  your  other  duties.  Now  I  think  it  is 
right  to  dismiss  them  from  your  mind,  and  feel 
easy  and  happy  about  them.  If  God  has  given 
us  one  set  of  duties,  he  certainly  will  not  be  pleas- 
ed if  we  neglect  them,  and  go  to  hunting  .up  others 
for  ourselves." 

"  Well,  but,"  said  Ruth,  "  then  cannot  I  do  any- 
thing for  good  objects  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  do,"  said  Miss  Darling, — 
"I  have  very  little  time  which  I  can  call  my  own, 
but  I  have  some; — now,  every  new  claim  that 
comes  up,  I  pray  over  and  think  about,  and  turn  it 
round  this  way  and  that,  and  look  at  it  all  about, 
and  arrange  and  rearrange  it  till  I  understand  what 
I  ought  to  do.  If  I  find  I  can  meet  it,  I  give  it  its 
day  and  hour,  and  keep  to  it,  unless  something 
comes  up  in  which  I  think  I  can  be  more  useful 
still ;  if  so,  I  make  another  deliberate  change. 
This  I  find  is  the  best  way  for  me.  I  keep  my 
mind  clear  and  quiet ;  I  am  not  disturbed  by  every 
new  object ;  I  know  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  wlieth- 


THE    COUNTUf    COUSINS.  305 

er  I  am  doing  it  or  not ;  I  must  do  a  little  at  a 
time  and  keep  at  it ;  I  can't  give  up,  now  and  then, 
a  whole  week,  and  then  do  nothing  for  a  month." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Ruth,  "  now  you  talk 
about  it,  and  set  it  all  out  so  clear,  that  I  might 
spend  a  part  of  my  time  in  sewing  for  charity." 

"  Well,  you  do,  do  n't  you  ?  " 

"  "Why  yes,  I  go  to  sewing-circle." 

"  And  is  not  that  as  much  as  you  ought  to  do  ?  " 

"When  I  bring  work  home  to  finish,  I  think  it  is." 

u  You  have  to  do  all  your  own  plain  sewing." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Ruth  —  stopping  a  little,  "  and 
that  I  ought  to  do,  I  suppose,  as  much  as  I  can ; 
but  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  I  might  leave  out  a 
line  of  stitching,  or  a  little  extra  frilling,  and  be 
doing  something  for  charity." 

Miss  Darling  looked  much  pleased ;  she  found 
that  Ruth's  heart  was  in  the  matter.  "  But,"  con- 
tinued Ruth,  "  I  do  not  always  have  anything  to 
do." 

"  Suppose  you  estimate  your  time  at  so  much 
an  hour,  say  six,  eight,  or  ten  cents,"  said  Miss 
Darling,  "  and  sew  for  yourself  and  put  that  by 
in  money ;  if  you  really  feel  that  this  is  one  of  the 
ways  in  which  you  can  conscientiously  work." 

"  I  do  n't  know  but  that  would  be  a  good  plan 
for  me,"  said  Ruth,  with  a  brightening  countenance ; 
u  I  '11  think  about  it.  Then,  when  I  do  have  an 
26* 


306  THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

afternoon,  it  seems  to  me  I  might  visit  now  and 
then  some  poor  families,  if  I  knew  where  to  go." 

"  You  had  better  think  over  this,"  said  Miss 
Darling,  "and  plan  it  all  out;  how  long  it  will 
take  to  go  and  come,  and  bx»w  much  time  you  would 
like  to  spend  there  ;  and  just  what  you  want  to  do 
when  you  get  there ;  —  and  if  it  is  one  of  the 
ways  you  decide  on,  you  can  have  it  in  view,  and 
make  inquiries  of  the  girls,  —  and  keep  a  list  of 
those  you  hear  about  who  need  visiting.  I  am 
telling  you  things,"  said  Miss  Darling,  "  which 
have  helped  me  along.  Now  vnu  may  find  out 
better  ways  than  these  for  yourself.  If  you  have 
given  yourself  wholly  to  Christ,  and  are  in  earnest 
to  work  where  he  would  have  you  work,  you  have 
the  right  spirit,  and  wont  be  long  in  the  dark  after 
you  set  yourself  to  thinking  about  it." 

"It  has  sometimes  troubled  me,"  said  Ruth, 
"because  Caroline  was  doing  so  much,  and  I  so 
little." 

u  I  find  it  wont  do  to  measure  our  duties  by  other 
folks'  lines,"  said  Miss  Darling ;  "  Caroline  does  n't 
have  to  live  out." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Ruth,  "  and  as  soon  as  we 
get  the  boys  along  a  little,  I  sha'n't  have  to." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  never  will  be  placed  in  a 
situation  where  you  have  more  opportunities  of  do- 
ing good  than  you  have  in  living  out." 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  307 

u  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Ruth. 
« I  've  seen  a  great  deal  of  hired  girls  in  my 
day,"  said  Miss  Darling.  "When  I  am  sewing 
alone,  or  down  stairs  pressing.  I  somehow  make 
friend-  among  them,  and  they  talk  to  me  freely,  — 
and  the  mistress  talks  to  me,  and  I  see  just  how 
things  work." 

"  Well,  how  do  they  work  ?  "  said  Ruth. 
« I  '11  tell  you  how  it  is.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind,  from  all  I  have  seen  and  heard,  that  a  hired 
girl  is  a  very  important  member  of  society ;  that 
she  really  holds  a  very  responsible  office ;  and  that 
if  she  fills  it  well,  there  are  few  situations  where 
she  can  exert  more  influence." 

"  Why,  how  you  talk  !  "  said  Ruth. 
u  Perhaps  you  do  not  think  so  now,"  said  Miss 
Oarling ;  •'  but  you  will,  if  you  live  long  enough, 
and  view  the  matter  rightly.  I  sometimes  think  a 
hired  girl  has  a  great  deal  to  keep  her  in  the 
Christian  life.  In  the  first  place  she  has  a  regular 
routine  of  duty  and  responsibility ;  she  knows  gen- 
erally where  they  begin,  and  where  they  end ;  and 
a  regular  busy  lite  is  a  great  help  to  her;  she  finds 
in  her  calling  what  many  a  young  lady  just  from 
school  is  really  suffering  for." 

«I  think  that  is  true,"  said  Ruth;  "I  know 
Lucy  used  to  say  the  Miss  Roberts  never  seemed 
to  know  what  to  do  with  themselves." 


308  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

"  0  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  some  regular 
work,  in  this  world,  which  you  must  do,"  said  Miss 
Darling  ;  "  it  keeps  the  mind  active,  and  saves  it 
from  falling  into  listless  ways,  which  are  a  great 
hindrance  to  prayer  and  serious  thought.  Then 
being  faithful  in  the  service  of  their  employers, 
seems  to  lead  their  minds  easily  into  the  idea  of 
being  faithful  in  the  service  of  God,  and  gives 
them  a  practical  notion  about  it,  which  those  who 
have  no  employers  or  employments,  do  not  seem 
fully  to  get  at  always." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Ruth;  "but 
there  is  one  thing,  —  girls  who  live  out  have  a 
great  many  little  things  to  fret  and  vex  them." 

"  Not  any  more  than  they  need,  to  keep  them 
good-tempered,"  said  Miss  Darling  ;  "  and  if  they 
meet  them  rightly,  in  a  gentle, forgiving,  charitable 
spirit,  and  live  on,  day  by  day,  like  Christians  who 
pray  much,  —  they  somehow  seem  to  affect  a 
whole  household  for  good ;  I  can  hardly  describe 
how.  It  is  the  little  leaven.  I  can  tell  you,  Ruth, 
these  hired  girls  are  a  very  important  part  of  our 
families  over  this  great  city." 

"  I  do  n't  know  but  they  are,"  said  Ruth. 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,"  said  Miss  Darling. 
"  0,  how  many  times  have  I  seen  a  whole  house, 
from  garret  to  cellar,  disturbed  by  one  solitary 
fretful,  unprincipled  servant.  They  can  manage  *Q 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  309 

produce  as  much  general  discomfort,  if  they  have 
the  mind,  as  anybody  in  the  ordinary  walks  of 
life,  —  and  on  the  other  hand,  as  much  comfort." 

"It  is  n't  every  girl,  if  she  is  ever  so  good,  who 
gets  into  a  religious  family,  as  I  have,"  said  Ruth. 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Miss  Darling  ;  "  you  have 
been  much  favored.  But  if  a  Christian  falls  into 
an  irreligious  family,  there  is  so  much  the  more 
reason  why  she  should  be  watchful,  and  seek  to 
exhibit  the  spirit  of  Christ,  by  walking  humbly 
and  softly  before  God.  How  does  she  know  but  that 
she  was  sent  there  for  that  very  purpose  ?  I  can 
recall  now  three  or  four  instances  of  peisons  who 
were  first  led  to  serious  reflection,  by  seeing  that 
their  domestic  possessed  some  source  of  enjoyment 
and  high  motive,  and  peace  of  heart  which  they 
had  not." 

The  clock  struck  nine.  Ruth  started  —  it  was 
much  later  than  she  had  supposed ;  later  than  6he 
liked  to  be  out  alone,  and  she  hurried  home. 


XIII. 

HOW   MITCH    SHALL    I    GIVE? 

ONE  pleasant  morning  Ruth's  little  charge,  ready 
for  their  walk,  were  waiting  on  the  steps,  while 
baby  was  packed  into  his  waggon.  They  were  in 
great  glee,  for  they  were  going  to  aunt  Baily's  to 
see  the  singing-birds. 

Before  baby  was  accommodated  to  his  entire 
satisfaction,  Mrs.  Fay  came  out,  and  seeing  her 
little  folks  so  bright  and  pleasant,  she  felt  inclined 
to  change  the  direction  of  her  walk,  and  join  them. 

"  O  mamma,"  said  Alice,  "  do  go  to  aunt  Baily's 
to  see  the  singing-bird  —  yellow,  Ruth  says.'" 

"  No,  Canaries —  Alice ;  are  not  they  Canaries, 
Ruth  ?  —  you  had  better  go,  mamma." 

Mamma  could  not  refuse  these  invitations.  "  I 
think  1  must  go  too,"  said  she.  Ruth  looked 
pleased,  and  all  being  in  good  spirits,  they  had  a 
very  pleasant  walk  of  it. 

Aunt  Baily  was  at  home,4  and  received  the 
party  very  cordially,  —  and  opened  a  fresh  bottle 
of  ginger  beer  for  them  ;  and  Canary  did  his  best 
to  entertain  them.  Ruth  felt  proud  and  happy,  as 
if  she  were  showing  off  her  own  family  to  her  aunt. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  311 

While  they  were  waiting  there,  Mrs.  Fay  ob- 
served, with  much  interest,  a  pale-faced  young 
woman,  sewing  at  an  attic  window  in  the  opposite 
house.  Steadily  and  swiftly  went  her  needle  in 
and  out  —  in  and  out ;  and  she  never  raised  her 
eyes  except  to  reach  for  the  thread.  At  length 
Mrs.  Fay  inquired  about  her,  and  aunt  Baily  had 
a  long  story  to  tell,  the  substance  of  which  was 
this:  — 

"Those  two  attic  rooms  were  occupied  by  an 
old  man,  and  this  his  daughter.  He  was  very  in- 
firm —  had  been  bed-ridden  for  six  months ;  she 
supported  herself  and  him  by  taking  in  slop-shop 
work.  For  the  past  few  months  their  doctor  had 
'  come  down  upon  them  pretty  hard  for  his  pay  ;' 
and  there  the  poor  girl  had  toiled  for  half,  and  often 
two-thirds,  of  the  night.  Provisions,  too,  had  been 
dear,  and  she  had  had  a  hard  time  of  it  to  live,  for 
these  slop-shops  do  n't  pay  nothing  for  their  work." 

Aunt  Baily  did  not  tell  how  many  nice  and 
wholesome  bits  they  had  received  from  her  table  ; 
nor  how  she  sometimes  staid  at  home  on  a  Sunday, 
to  let  the  poor  girl  run  out,  and  get  a  bit  of  fresh 
air. 

Mrs.  Fay  was  touched  by  this  story,  and  she 
put  a  bill  in  aunt  Baily's  hands,  which  she  begged 
her  to  use  for  their  benefit.  Ruth,  with  the  tears 
in  her  eyes,  turned  quickly  round  and,  with  a  look 


312  THE    COUNTRY   COUSIN9. 

at  her  aunt  which  meant  —  "  do  n't  speak,"  placed 
by  it  half  a  dollar. 

"Take  that  back,"  said  the  blunt,  straightfor- 
ward aunt, '-  you  have  n't  money  enough  to  be  giv- 
ing away  so." 

"  Yes  I  have,  I  am  rich,"  said  Ruth  hastily,  at 
the  same  time  making  herself  busy  with  the  baby. 

"  I  know  better  than  all  that,"  said  her  aunt ;  "  I 
know  how  many  ways  you  have  for  your  money 
to  go.  I  do  n't  believe  Mrs.  Fay  knows  how  much 
you  give  away  ;  and  what's  more,  I  don't  believe 
you  do,  either." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  we  have  ever  had  any  con- 
versation about  it,  have  we,  Ruth  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Fay. 

"I  guess  not,"  replied  Ruth  ;  "and  sometimes  I 
am  puzzled  as  to  just  what  my  duty  is." 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  her  some  right  notions," 
said  aunt  Baily ;  "  she  is  so  quick-feeling  she  gives 
before  she  knows  it,  a'most,  and  that  a'nt  the  right 
way." 

"  No,  that  is  not  the  best  way,"  said  Mrs.  Fay  ; 
"  what  we  give  should  be  from  principle,  and  not 
from  impulse.  We. must  have  in  our  own  minds 
some  settled  convictions  of  what  we  ought  to  do, 
and  do  it;  whether  we  feel  like  it  at  the  time  or 
not.  It  wont  do  to  trust  our  Christian  charities  to 
tho  chances  of  excited  feeling-" 


THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS.  313 

"That's  just  what  I  think,"  said  aunt  Baily ; 
u  our  feelings  carry  us  out  to  sea  sometimes,  when 
we  Ve  neither  chart  nor  compass  on  board ;  and 
we  are  in  danger  of  getting  swamped.  I  wish 
Ruth  would  settle  her  mind  on  just  the  right  thing. 
I  think  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  her." 

"  Some  people,"  said  Ruth,  "  give  us  the  rule 
that  we  must  give  to  the  poor  one  tenth  of  what 
we  have." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Fay  ;  "  but  it  is  easy  to 
see  that  that  will  not  answer  for  all ;  and  that  you 
cannot  make  one  rule  for  all.  For  instance,  here 
is  a  person  with  an  income  of*seventy  thousand 
dollars  a  year ;  and  here  is  this  poor  girl  over  the 
way,  earning  scarcely  one  hundred.  What  would 
the  rich  man's  tenth  be  to  him,  in  comparison  with 
hers  to  her  ?  " 

"  Just  nothing  at  all,"  said  aunt  Baily  ;"  and  it 
a'nt  that  poor  girl's  duty  to  give  anything,  accord- 
ing to  my  notion." 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Fay ;  "  for  she 
can  but  scantily  provide  the  bare  necessities  of 
life  for  herself  and  her  aged  father." 

"  I  want  to  give  a  great  many  times,"  said  Ruth, 
"when  I  do  not  feel  quite  sure  that  I  ought;  for! 
know  that  my  father  needs  all  I  can  spare  ;  and 
yet,  earning  what  I  do,  it  seems  to  me  I  mighj 
manage  to  save  a  little  for  charity." 
27 


314  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

"  According  to  my  way  of  thinking,"  said  aunt 
Baily,  "  charity  begins  at  home  ;  if  you  do  n't  take 
care  of  those  of  your  own  household,  you  are 
worse  than  an  infidel." 

"  This  is  a  doctrine  which  has  been  much  abu- 
sed," said  Mrs.  Fay  ;  "  and  we  must  practise  on  it, 
it  seems  to  me,  prayerfully  and  watchfully  ;  though 
it  is  all  true.  On  this  subject,  we  need  particularly 
to  have  an  enlightened  conscience." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  just  what  I  ought  to  give," 
said  Ruth. 

"  Well,  Ruth,"  said  Mrs.  Fay ;  "  you  know  pre- 
cisely what  your  Income  is  a  year,  —  and  you 
know  what  your  dress  costs  you,  do  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Ruth,  "  I  have  kept  an  exact  ac- 
count of  everything,  ever  since  I  have  been  with 
you.  I  always  set  it  down  at  night ;  it  has  been 
a  great  help  to  me." 

"  Then  you  know  what  you  want  to  send  your 
father  —  does  this  take  every  dollar,  after  you 
have  deducted  what  you  need  for  dress  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Ruth  ;  "  he  wishes  me  to 
Bend  him  only  what  he  thinks,  at  any  rate,  I  ought 
to  lay  by  for  a  wet  day.  He  says,  while  I  am 
young  and  have  my  health,  I  ought  to  live  so  that 
J  can  put  by  something." 

"  That  is  just  as  it  should  be,  I  think,"  said 
Mrs.  Fay.  "  Now,  from  your  regular  income  you 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  315 

can  deduct  what  is  required  for  dress  and  for  your 
father ;  two  expenditures  which  it  is  right  you 
should  meet ;  so  much  of  your  money  then,  is  em- 
ployed, and  does  not  properly  belong  to  you  to  dis- 
tribute in  charities." 

«  I  think  that  is  clear,"  said  Ruth. 

"  A  girl  ought  to  lay  by  a  little  every  year,  if 
it's  nothing  but  a  five-dollar  bill,  I  think,"  said  aunt 
Baily.  " '  She  is  born,  but  she  is  n't  buried,'  and 
how  does  she  know  what  will  happen  to  her !  She 
had  better  make  sure  of  her  money  while  it's  in 
her  hands.  That 's  a  part  of  brother  Hiram's  no- 
tion, I  know ;  one  of  these  days  Ruth  will  get  it 
back  again  out  of  the  farm,  with  interest,  1  'm  a 
thinking." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Mrs.  Fay.  "  I  see  she  has 
had  a  good  father.  Now,  Ruth,  deducting  these 
two,  what  have  you  left  of  your  wages,  for  leeway, 
as  we  say  ?  " 

"  About  ten  dollars  a  year,"  said  Ruth,  after  a 
few  minutes'  thought. 

u  This,  then,  is  really  your  only  available  money ; 
it  is  all  which  you  have  a  right  to  reckon  on. 
From  this  fund  you  must  make  up  for  all  your 
mistakes  and  miscalculation.  If  you  run  over 
your  allowance  for  dress,  it  is  from  here  you  must 
meet  it;  if  you  wish  to  go  home  or  to  a  dentist's, 
you  must  take  it  from  here  ;  and  from  here,  aUo, 


316  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

must  come  your  charities.  Now,  have  you  any 
regular  plan  about  giving,  or  do  you  know  how 
much  of  your  money  goes  in  this  way  ?  " 

u  Not  exactly,"  said  Ruth ;  "  but  at  our  Com- 
munion I  generally  put  in  a  little,  perhaps  twelve 
and  a  half  cents ;  and  about  the  same  at  Sabbath- 
school  concert ;  and  this  winter  they  made  an  effort 
to  enlarge  the  library,  and  I  gave  fifty  cents.  Then 
I  give  to  about  six  of  the  objects  which  are  pre- 
sented annually,  the  same." 

"  Anything  more  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Fay,  who  sat  with 
pencil  in  hand. 

"  My  tax  at  the  sewing-circle  is  fifty  cents ;  and 
this  winter  we  came  to  a  pinch  for  a  poor  family, 
and  I  gave  twenty-five  more  —  and  —  and  I  do  n't 
exactly  remember  —  " 

"  I  guess  you  have  told  enough,"  said  aunt 
Baily. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Fay,  "  reckoning  some  things 
which  I  know  you  have  forgotten,  you  have  proba- 
bly given  away  in  these  small  sums  over  five  dol- 
lars this  past  year." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  much  as  that,"  said 
Ruth,  —  "  but  I  think  I  can  do  that." 

"It  leaves  you  pretty  short  for  extras,"  said 
aunt  Baily. 

«  Well,"  said  Ruth,  « I  can't  expect  to  do  all  I 
want  to  with  my  money,  and  not  come  short  some- 
where. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  317 

"  Tt  strikes  me,"  said  Mrs.  Fay,  "  that  you 
would  find  it  an  assistance  to  put  by  just  what  you 
conscientiously  feel  you  can  give  away.  I  do  not 
mean,  now,  what  you  conveniently  can." 

"No  need  of  telling  her  of  that,"  said  aunt 
Baily. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Fay ;  "  but  I  want  to 
have  her  understand  just  my  view  of  it.  Then, 
divide  this  among  the  objects  which  seem  to  you 
most  worthy ;  and  give  to  them,  whether  you  hap- 
pen to  be  particularly  interested  in  them  at  the 
time  or  not ;  give  it,  or  send  it  as  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple. Your  mind  will  be  clear  then,  and  your 
conscience  at  rest  as  to  your  duty.  Then  I  would 
not  exceed  my  limit." 

"  But  suppose  something  comes  up  suddenly 
which  I  could  not  expect,  and  I  want  very  much 
to  give  a  little  ?  " 

"You  had  better  make  provision  for  this  very 
contingency.  In  portioning  out  your  charity  money, 
leave  a  part  for  an  unlooked-for  call." 

"  That  would  be  a  good  plan,"  said  Ruth  ;  u  it 
seems  to  me  I  have  a  good  many." 

"  And  always  will,"  said  aunt  Baily  ;  "  but  I  am 
glad  you  love  to  give.     Hiram  was  always  just 
so ;  he  'd  take  the  victuals  out  of  his  mouth  if  he 
thought  anybody  wanted  them." 
27* 


318  THE    COUNTRY   COUSINS. 

"  "What  if  I  should  want  more  than  I  had  ?  " 
said  Ruth. 

"  You  have  no  resource  then,  but  to  cut  down 
your  clothing.  Now,  here  this  morning,  you  have 
given  away  half  a  dollar,  and  exceeded  perhaps 
by  twenty-five  cents  your  allowance  in  this  de- 
partment. If  so,  you  must  contrive  to  make  it 
up,  or  take  it  from  some  other  benevolent  object." 

" '  That  would  be  robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul,'  " 
said  aunt  Baily. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Fay,  —  "  unless  the  dress 
comes  short ;  perhaps  she  could  contrive  to  make 
it  up  in  that  way,  —  say,  get  one  yard  less  of  rib- 
bon for  your  summer  hat,  and  give  up  the  bow, 
and  wear  it  plain." 

"  You  do  not  think  bows  are  wicked,  do  you  ? '' 
said  aunt  Baily.  "  It  seems  to  me,  it  would  n't 
hurt  Ruth  to  feel  that  it  is  right  for  her  to  dress 
just  as  pretty  as  she  can." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would,"  says  Mrs.  Fay  ;  u  and 
after  a  girl  has  laid  by  just  what  she  conscien- 
tiously thinks  she  ought  to  spend  on  her  dress,  it  is 
worth  time  and  trouble  to  select  just  as  pretty 
things  for  her  money  as  she  can  get.  It  is  an  in- 
nocent exercise  of  taste.  What  I  mean  is  this. 
That,  with  limited  means,  a  girl  cannot  do  every- 
thing she  wants  to  do,  of  course ;  and  if  she  pre- 
fers the  pleasure  of  giving  to  some  unexpected 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  319 

call  a  sum  exceeding  her  charity  allowance,  she 
must  sacrifice  to  it  the  pleasure  of  wearing  some 
innocent  ornament,  like  a  bow  on  a  bonnet,  —  both 
of  which  she  might  do  if  she  were  richer.  It  is 
only  in  the  matter  of  mere  ornamental  parts  of 
dress,  that  I  should  think  it  proper  for  her  to  re- 
trench. It  is  not  good  economy,  in  the  long  run,  to 
buy  cheap  goods." 

"  That  is  just  so,"  said  aunt  Baily.  "  It  costs 
as  much  to  make  up  a  slazy  frock  as  a  good  one, 
and  it  do  n't  wear  half  as  long.  A  girl  who  is  liv- 
ing out,  wears  clothes  faster  than  she  does  at 
home,  and  she  ought  to  buy  what  is  good,  and 
strong,  and  suitable ;  she  'd  better  have  less  of 
them,  and  have  them  the  right  sort." 

u  That  is  very  true,"  said  Mrs.  Fay. 

"  And  besides  this,  get  them  as  pretty  as  she 
can,  —  do  you  hear  that,  Ruth  ?  "  said  aunt  Baily. 
"  I  would  n't  preach  that  doctrine  to  Lucy,  but  it 
wont  hurt  you  a  bit  Poor  Lucy !  Everything 
she  gets  goes  on  to  her  back;  and  she  doesn't 
now,  after  all,  look  as  well  as  Ruth  does." 

."Nothing  looks  more  shabby  than  cheap  finery," 
said  Mrs.  Fay,  rising  to  go ;  "  we  have  made  you 
a  long  call  this  morning,  Mrs.  Baily." 

"  O  mamma,"  said  Alice, "  do  let  me  stay  all  day, 
—  see  this  fly-catcher  I  made  one  time  when  I 


320  THE   COUNTKT   COUSINS. 

come  — I  want  to  stay  and  make  some  more  fly- 
catchers." 

"  Not  now,"  said  her  mother ;  "  you  shall  come 
again." 

"  Here,  Ruth,"  said  aunt  Baily,  handing  her 
back  her  half-dollar ;  "  You  have  gone  over  your 
charity  money,  this  year,  I  know,  —  take  it  back." 

Ruth  cast  her  eye  up  to  the  attic-window.  The 
pale-faced  woman  seemed  not  to  have  moved  ;  it 
was  still  sew  —  sew  —  sew,  —  in  and  out  —  in  and 
out. 

"  0, 1  cannot,"  said  Ruth  —  thinking  about  the 
bow  on  the  bonnet.  "  I  will  make  it  up  somehow, 
and  I  will  plan  better  another  time,  so  I  need  n't 
get  into  trouble.  I  see  now  just  what  I  can  do." 

Aunt  Baily  ceased  to  urge  her,  —  and  the  little 
party  bidding  her  good-morning,  took  their  leave. 

On  her  way  home,  Ruth  was  thinking  whether 
in  some  of  her  sewing  times,  she  could  not  give 
the  pale-faced  woman  a  little  lift  on  her  slop-shop 
work. 


XIV. 

ANOTHER   CHANGE. 

FIVE  or  six  months  passed  away  at  one  time, 
and  neither  Ruth  nor  aunt  Baily  heard  or  sa\r 
anything  of  Lucy.  She  was  so  frequently  chang- 
ing places,  that  they  could  not  keep  trace  of  her, 
unless  she  reported  herself.  One  Sabbath  morn- 
ing she  suddenly  made  her  appearance  before 
Ruth,  dressed  in  a  thin  white  muslin,  which  was 
gaudily  trimmed  with  lace. 

"  Why,  you  look  like  a  bride  !  "  was  Ruth's  first 
exclamation. 

"  And  so  I  am ! "  said  Lucy,  "  or  am  to  be  to- 
night; and  I  want  you  to  go  with  me,  at  six 
o'clock,  to  the  Universalist  church,  to  be  my 
bridesmaid ! " 

"  Whom  are  you  going  to  marry,  —  that  Mr. 
Hale  ?  " 

"  Not  he,  indeed !  —  We  quarrelled  long  ago. 
I  am  going  to  marry  John  Thompson ;  he  is  a 
right  handsome  fellow.  —  I  want  to  have  you  see 
him!" 

Ruth  begged  Lucy  to  etop  awhile,  and  tell  her 
all  about  it.  She  sat  down  reluctantly,  declared  she 


322  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

had  not  five  minutes  to  stay, —  she  had  everything 
to  do.  There  was  not  really  much  to  tell.  "  She 
had  known  John  Thompson  about  six  weeks  ;  the 
only  account  which  she  could  give  of  him  was,  that 
he  was  a  '  travelled  gentleman.'  He  had  no  profes- 
sion nor  trade  nor  employment  of  any  kind  ;  but 
he  said  he  had  a  rich  old  uncle,  who  was  going  to 
leave  him  a  fortune  when  he  died.  He  dressed 
well,  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money,  and  wore 
black  whiskers ! " 

"  But  what  will  you  live  on  ?  "  asked  Ruth  — 
quite  in  distress. 

"  I  do  n't  know ! "  said  Lucy,  hastily.  "  That  is 
his  look-out  and  not  mine.  He  manages  to  pick 
up  a  living  somewhere  ;  I  rather  think  his  uncle 
helps  him.  We  are  going  to  travel  for  a  little 
while." 

Ruth  burst  into  tears.  She  saw  at  a  glance  all 
the  hazard  which  her  cousin  was  incurring;  and 
she  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  dissuade  her,  now 
matters  had  gone  so  far. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Lucy,  "  I  can't  stop  to  see 
folks  crying.  Ruth,  there's  nothing  to  cry  about  ; 
your  turn  will  come  next.  You  wont  have  to  live 
out  always,  —  so  keep  up  good-heart  about  it.  We 
will  call  for  you  at  six,  and  —  wear  your  white 
veil  now,  mind  you." 

Ruth  had  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  home,  and 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSINS.  323 

ask  the  consent  of  her  parents, —  but  it  was  all  in 
va.m.  Thinking  they  would  not  forgive  her  if  she 
dtstiied  her  cousin  now,  she  reluctantly  promised 
to  bo  ready. 

Ruth  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  Mr.  Thomp- 
son's appearance,  and  it  was  with  a  voice  choking 
with  emotion  that  she  bade  Lucy  good-bye  upon 
the  church  steps,  and  resigned  her  to  his  care. 
Poor  .Lucy !  She  had  put  her  last  sixpence  upon 
her  bri.ial-veil !  —  and  yet,  with  all  her  faults,  she 
deserve. 1  a  better  fate.  Aunt  Baily  would  not 
come  to  iee  her  married.  She  said,  "  she  had  done 
the  best  she  could  for  her ;  and  Lucy  never  would 
take  h^i  advice,  and  now  she  must  go  her  own 
ways.' 


XV. 

THE   RETURN   HOME. 

ABOUT  the  time  in  the  second  year  when  Ruth 
had  planned  to  go  home,  another  child  was  added 
to  Mr.  Fay's  family,  and  the  young  infant  was 
put  into  her  arms,  —  and  on  the  whole,  she  did 
not  feel  like  leaving  her  charge.  Three  years 
therefore  passed  by  before  Ruth  made  the  long- 
anticipated  visit  home.  Her  trunk  was  well 
loaded  with  presents,  for  all  the  little  folks  must 
needs  put  in  something  for  "  Ruth's  brothers." 

Ruth  was  now  quite  ready  to  go ;  she  was  well 
clothed,  and  had  already  sent  her  father  one  hun- 
dred dollars  ;  and  thirty  more  she  had  to  carry 
with  her. 

The  ride  was  pleasant,  but  saddened  somewhat 
by  recollections  of  Lucy.  When  she  entered  her 
native  village,  tree  and  rock  and  hill  greeted  her 
like  early  friends  ;  —  she  was  excited,  but  yet 
happy,  —  for  she  was  now  very  conscious  that  there 
had  been  a  change  in  her.  When  she  used  to 
dwell  among  them  she  was  living  a  selfish  life,  — 
now,  she  felt  that  she  had  higher  motives,  and  that 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  325 

God  was  her  friend,  —  and  silently  she  expressed 
to  him  her  gratitude  and  love. 

By  and  hy  the  road  turned,  —  and  there  was 
the  roof  of  the  old  farm-house  just  peeping 
through  the  trees.  Ruth  leaned  out  of  the  win- 
dow —  her  heart  beat  quickly,  —  she  strained  her 
eyes  to  peer  through  the  trees,  —  but  her  sig^t 
Vvas  dim !  —  another  turn,  and  the  farm-house 
door  and  the  old  stone-step  came  to  view  !  —  and 
there  stood  the  same  party  watching  the  lumber- 
ing old  coach,  which  had  stood  there  three  years 
before  —  not  one  was  missing  ! 

Ruth  saw  first  her  father  and  mother,  —  they 
had  not  changed.  But  the  "  little  brothers"  she 
•would  scarcely  have  known ;  there  they  stood,  a 
row  of  great  sun-burnt  boys,  half-men,  feeling 
strange  and  acting  awkwardly  ;  yet,  when  she 
fairly  came  down  among  them,  they  welcomed  her 
with  a  shout  not  a  whit  leoS  noisy  than  the  one 
with  which  they  had  helped  her  off! 

That  was  a  great  day  at  the  farm-house  —  when 
Ruth  came  back.  A  looker-on  would  have  smiled 
to  see  how  the  old  people  tried  to  set  the  young 
ones  an  example  of  moderation,  and  how  poorly 
they  succeeded. 

Ruth's  mother,  good  old  lady,  must  soon  call  the 
tall  boy  to  put  on  the  tea-kettle,  —  and  call  the 
other,  whose  white  crown  was  only  a  trifle  lower 
28 


326  THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS. 

down,  to  put  on  fresh  logs  ;  and  she  must  stir  up 
a  fire-cake  which  she  remembered  Ruth  loved, 
that  they  might  have  an  early  tea  to  rest  the 
traveller.  —  And  after  tea,  the  father  must  stop  in 
his  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  —  as  soon  as  he 
saw  things  were  cleared  up  a  little  and  say :  "  "Well, 
mother,  shall  we  have  prayers  now,  because  the 
boys  are  all  here,  and  it's  the  first  night  Ruth  has 
come?" — And  mother  accedes  most  heartily,  and 
they  all  seat  themselves  in  the  old  kitchen  —  an 
unbroken  family  circle;  —  then,  after  reading  from 
the  well-worn  Bible,  the  father  kneels  in  prayer, 
and  acknowledges  God's  great  mercy  to  them  in 
keeping  their  dear  child  from  the  snares  of  the 
wicked  city,  and  bringing  her  to  a  saving  knowledge 
of  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus  ;  and  restoring  her  to 
them  in  due  season.  Aunt  Baily  was  right  about 
it.  "  Brother  Hiram  could  never  keep  anything 
to  himself;  if  he  was  happy,  he  must  go  right 
away  and  tell  God  all  about  it,  and  thank  Him 
for  it." 

Ruth  had  a  delightful  visit  home,  —  and  then 
the  question  of  returning  was  agitated.  Her  father 
said  "  that  it  was  not  necessary ;  the  money  which 
she  had  advanced  had  relieved  him  from  embar- 
rassment." Ruth  was  inclined  to  think,  that '  until 
the  boys  were  able  to  be  bringing  in  ready  money, 
ghe  had  better  keep  at  work,  —  she  was  not  really 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSINS.  327 

needed  at  home.'  Her  mother  favored  this  idea, — 
saying,  "  Ruth  might  now  put  by  in  the  Savings 
Bank,  and  thus  have  a  little  for  a  wet  day."  Ruth 
therefore  returned.  Mrs.  Fay  and  the  children  had 
missed  her  very  much.  She  found  friends  almost 
as  glad  to  see  her  at  this  end  of  the  journey  as  the 
other. 

Lucy's  return  to  her  native  village  a  year  or  two 
later  than  this,  was  in  sad  contrast.  As  might  have 
been  expected,  her  husband  turned  out  to  be  a 
worthless  fellow,  and  he  soon  deserted  her.  She 
struggled  on  awhile  alone,  until  broken  down  in 
body  and  mind,  with  two  sickly  children,  she  sought 
a  refuse  in  her  father's  house. 


THE  NIGHT  AFTER  CHRISTMAS. 


"  DRAW  the  shades,  Rose."  A  fair  young  girl 
stepped  lightly  within  the  damask  curtains,  —  and, 
with  soft,  jewelled  hands,  drew  the  shades. 

"  Shall  I  ring  for  lights,  mother?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  her  mother  ;  "  fire-light  will 
be  pleasant  awhile." 

The  Liverpool  coal,  as  if  hearing  its  praises,  be- 
gan immediately  to  play  pranks.  It  shot  up  pyra- 
mids of  flame;  —  whirled  them  round  in  circling 
eddies,  —  darted  them  forth  at  the  jolly  fire-set,  — 
and  even  went  so  far  as  to  shoot  its  glances  through 
the  half-opened  closet-door  and  crack  its  jokes  at 
the  sL.ning  silver.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  have  set 
out  to  make  itself  as  agreeable  as  possible, —  which 
was  its  business,  as  the  furnace  did  the  labor  for 
it, —  making  those  large  drawing-rooms  like  sum- 
mer, this  cold  December  evening. 

Rose  tried  to  finish  the  point  of  a  carnation  leaf 
by  the  ruddy  light, — but  soon  gave  it  up,  and  sunk 
into  the  velvet  couch  to  build  air-castles  ! 

Mrs.  M —  also  dropped  her  knitting  of  lich 
worsteds,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  comfort  of  her 
luxurious  chair. 


THE   NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS.  S29 

A  violent  gust  of  wind  shook  the  blinds,  and 
made  the  windows  rattle. 

••  We  shall  have  a  cold  night  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
M . 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose,  —  what  difference  could  cold 
make  with  her? — "Is  it  not  almost  tea-time, 
mother  ?  " 

"  Your  father  has  not  come  yet.  —  Well,  Peter, 
what  is  wanted?" 

"  There  is  a  woman  down  stairs,  ma'ara,  who 
wishes  to  see  you." 

"  What  is  her  business  ?  —  Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am, —  she  did  not  say." 

"  You  may  ask  her  up ;  but  stop,  I  dare  say  it 
is  a  beggar !  I  will  go  down." 

She  stepped  quickly  over  her  velvet  carpet,  and 
bidding  Peter  light  up,  she  went  to  the  kitchen. 
Near  the  door  a  woman  was  standing.  She  was 
poorly  dressed  in  a  faded  calico,  and  a  thin  shawl 
—  for  so  cold  a  night,  it  was  very  thin. 

u  Have  you  any  business  with  me  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
M ,  in  a  very  business-like  manner. 

The  woman  hesitated  ;  attempted  to  clear  her 
voice  ;  then  replied,  —  "I  was  told  you  were  rich 
here,  and  was  advised  to  come  and  see  if  you  could 
help  me  a  little  ;  I  am  in  trouble." 

"  Well,  I  have  had  nothing  but  beggara  here 
for  the  past  week,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Mrs..  M  — 
28* 


330  THE   NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

not  at  all  pleased;  "I  have  given  away,  all  I 
have  to  give.  Why  do  n't  you  work  ?  You  look 
pretty  hearty,  it 's  enough  better  than  begging. 
How  many  children  have  you  ?  " 

"  One,  and  she  is  sick  ! " 

"  Well,  you  are  well  enough,  I  dare  say.  I  can- 
not give  any  more ;  I  believe  it  only  encourages 
idleness." 

As  the  woman  turned  to  go,  the  light  fell  on  her 
sorrowful  and  care-worn  face ;  but  she  either  could 
not,  or  would  not,  speak. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  daughter?" 

said  Mrs.  M ,  in  a  gentler  tone.  She  was 

touched  a  little  by  that  speaking  face. 

" Consumption"  was  the  reply,  in  a  sharp  tone 
which  made  the  lady  start.  "  I  declare,"  said  she, 
as  she  heard  the  outer  door  open,  "  how  mad  she 
is.  I  do  not  believe  a  word  she  says.  Now,  Ann, 
understand,  I  am  not  to  be  called  down  to  see  any 
more  beggars.  Tell  them  I've  nothing  to  give, 
and  send  them  off;  it's  the  only  way." 

Mrs.  M returned  to  her  parlor.  Under 

the  brilliant  chandelier  sat  her  only  child.  Rose 
was  again  busy  with  her  carnation  leaf;  and  one 
rounded  arm,  bare  to  the  elbow,  supported  the  em- 
broidery-frame. Her  golden  hair  lay  in  ringlets 
on  cheeks  which,  among  its  other  pranks,  the 
Liverpool  coal  had  painted,  —  and  she  was,  indeed. 
a  very  sweet  object  to  look  upon. 


THE    NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS.  331 

"  Rose,  you  are  beautiful !  "  thought  hei  mother. 
"*I  really  wish  I  knew  whether  there  were  a  word 
of  truth,  or  not,  in  that  woman's  story  ! "  She 
sunk  back  into  her  easy-chair  and  tried  to  knit,  but 
she  was  not  successful.  "  An  only  child  dying  of 
consumption  !  Well,  the  worst  of  it  is,  one  never 
knows  what  to  believe.  I  dare  say  I  have  done 
more  harm  than  good  in  my  life-time,  by  giving 

away  to  poor  folks.  There  !  I  am  glad  Mr.  M 

has  come,  —  now  we  will  have  tea."  The  still- 
small-voice  was  effectually  silenced  by  two  cups  of 
Orange  Pecco. 

Tue  poor  woman,  who  had  been  turned  away 
from  this  lady's  door  on  a  cold  December  night, 
went  away  with  a  heart  filled  with  bitter  feelings. 
A  sharp  blast  blew  aside  her  shawl,  penetrating 
her  through  and  through.  The  change  from  a  hot 
kitchen  into  such  an  atmosphere  for  a  moment 
made  her  feel  sick  and  faint.  She  sunk  down  upon 
the  covered  granite  steps  of  a  house  near  by ; — she 
wished  she  could  die,  —  she  almost  forgot  to  care 
for  her  child,  or  thought  of  her  with  despair  —  "  We 
shall  both  die,  the  sooner  the  better!"  This  faint- 
ness  however,  passed  olK  and  she  rose  to  go  ;  but 
as  she  rose  the  cheerful  light  from  the  windows, 
near  where  she  had  been  sitting,  fell  upon  her  and 
almost  seemed  to  warm  her.  She  looked  in  at  the 
win-lows  though  with  angry  looks  and  words, — 
u  Yes.  comfortable  enough,  you  are  —  you  rich  and 


332  THE   NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

hard-hearted  !     May  I  die  in  the  streets,  before  I 
ever  beg  at  your  doors  again  ! " 

Still,  she  lingered,  as  if  the  fire  could  really 
warm  her.  A  lady  sat  there  by  the  grate,  and  at 
her  feet,  surrounded  by  costly  and  expensive  toys, 
sat  a  little  girl.  While  the  poor  woman  \va.s  look- 
ing, the  lady  smiled  on  the  child,  and  pointed  with 
her  finger  to  the  elegant  time-piece.  A  shade 
passed  like  a  cloud  over  the  sunny  face  of  the  little 
one,  and  it  was  gone.  Then  she  dropped  her 
pretty  playthings,  and  shaking  back  her  long  ring- 
lets, she  came  directly  and  knelt  at  her  mother's 
knee.  Folding  her  little  hands  and  closing  hei 
eyes,  she  began  to  pray.  As  her  lips  moved,  the 
poor  woman  thought  she  could  hear  her. 

"  Dear  Father,  who  art  in  heaven,"  was  a  part 
of  the  prayer,  "  if  there  are  any  people  to-night 
out  in  the  cold,  without  anything  to  eat  or  drink  or 
keep  them  warm,  wilt  Thou  take  care  of  them. 
Make  somebody  kind  to  them ;  make  somebody 
give  them  a  fire,  and  things  to  eat,  that  they  may 
be  warm  and  happy,  for  Christ's  sake.  Amen." 

Did  she  really  hear  that  prayer?' — or  why  was 
it  then  that  her  angry  feelings  all  vanished  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  that  with  streaming  eyes  she  stood  rivet- 
ed to  the  spot?  She  forgot  her  angry  resolution; 
she  even  placed  her  hand  on  the  bell-handle  —  she 
would  go  in  and  beg  here  ;  —  but  the  little  child 
gathered  up  her  toys,  kissed  her  mother,  sprang 


THE   NIGHT   AFTER    CHRISTMAS.  333 

into  the  nurse's  arms,  and  was  carried  to  bed  ;  and 
the  lady  sat  there  alone.  The  poor  woman's  heart 
failed  her ;  she  gave  up  her  half-formed  plan,  and 
left  the  house. 

Now  she  walked  rapidly  through  the  half-dark- 
ened streets.  Lamps  were  already  lighted.  People 
hurried  past  her.  Standing  hackmen  rubbed  their 
hands  and  beat  their  breasts,  —  it  was  very  cold. 
On  she  went ;  it  was  a  long  way,  from  Beacon 
street  quite  to  the  South  End — a  weary  way  after 
a  hard  day's  work. 

It  was  very  dark  when  she  entered  her  cold  and 
dismal  room. 

"  I«  that  you,  mother  ?  "  said  a  feeble  voice. 

«  Yes,  it 's  me." 

"  O,  I  am  so  glad  you  Ve  come  ;  I  've  had  a 
hard  time  of  it,  coughing ;  and  I  feel  very  weak ; 
it  is  lonesome,  too,  when  you  are  gone." 

"  Well,  do  n't  try  to  talk  ;  how  long  has  the  fire 
been  out  ?  " 

"  'Most  ever  since  you  went  away.  I  've  had  a 
hot  spell  and  did  n't  mind  it,  but  I  begin  to  be 
chilly  now." 

Her  mother  felt  her  way  to  the  shelf,  and  strik- 
ing a  match,  lighted  a  candle.  She  then  took  up 
a  bit  of  rug,  which  was  before  the  stove,  and  threw 
it  on  the  bed,  —  tucking  it  in  around  the  shoulders 
of  the  sick  girl.  She  did  this  without  speaking, 


334  THE   NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

kindled  a  fire  in  the  stove  and  sat  down  by  it,  witl 
her  head  on  her  hands. 

"  Did  you  get  ray  arrow-root  ?  "  was  asked  in  a 
feeble  voice, 

"  No,  I  did  n't ;  I  never  thought  a  word  on't." 

"  That 's  too  bad,"  was  the  fretful  reply.  "  I  've 
felt  all  gone,  ever  since  I  coughed  so  ;"  —  and  the 
poor  girl  wept. 

"  You  would  n't  say  a  word  if  you  knew  what  I 
had  to  go  through  with  ;  you  would  n't  complain 
of  me." 

"  I  a'n't  complaining,"  said  the  child,  —  touched 
by  the  unusual  sadness  of  her  mother's  tone. 
"  Did  n't  you  get  anything  ?  " 

"  Get  anything  ?  No,  not  I.  —  But  it  was 
not  that  I  minded  so  much ;  it  was  the  way 
she  spoke  to  me.  It  cut  me  somehow  right  in 
two!" 

"  I  would  n't  care  about  it,  mother ;  it 's  no  mat- 
ter ;  I  shall  be  off  your  hands  pretty  soon,  and 
then  you  '11  get  along  easier.  If  you  will  warm 
over  the  water-gruel,  I  '11  drink  that." 

"  No,  you  sha'n't ;  I  '11  go  and  get  you  arrow-root, 
Susan,  —  if  you  can  make  out  on  a  little  porridge 
till  I  come  back." 

Susan  said  that  would  do,  and  took  the  porridge, 
—  but  without  knowing  that  she  was  taking  all  her 
mother's  supper,  —  or  that  the  small  peice  of 


THE   NIGHT   AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

money  now  going  for  her  arrow-root,  was  the  very 
last  of  the  week's  earnings. 

It  was  some  distance  to  the  grocer's,  and  this 
time  the  widow  walked  with  weary  step  and  slow. 
She  was  completely  worn  out ;  she  could  only  drag 
herself  there  and  back.  When  she  returned  an«i 
opened  her  door,  there  was  a  great  change  in  her 
room  :  a  fire  now  burned  cheerfully  in  the  stove ; 
candles  were  on  a  table  which  had  been  placed  by 
Susan's  bed,  and  which  seemed  to  be  covered  with 
parcels ;  and  she,  bolstered  up,  her  eyes  brilliant 
with  expression,  half-laughing,  half-crying,  held  up 
before  her  astonished  mother  a  bunch  of  white 
grapes. 

"  See  !  see  !  she  brought  them ;  and  she  has  got 
more  washing  for  you,  too." 

"  Who  ?  "  said  her  mother,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  I  do  not  know  :  a  kind  lady  somebody  sent 
here  ;  she  did  not  tell  me  her  name." 

"  Who  sent  her?  " 

"  She  did  not  tell  me,  mother ;  it  is  no  matter. 
Make  haste  and  get  you  a  cup  of  tea  —  real  tea, 
only  think,  —  do,  mother,  and  give  me  some  of  it." 

"  1  know  who  sent  her." 

«  Who  was  it  ?  " 

Her  mother  did  not  reply.  She  was  not  yet 
quite  clear  enough  in  her  knowledge  ;  she  was  put- 
ting this  and  that  together,  in  her  mind.  In  her 


336  THE    NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

heart  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  that  little  child 
had  prayed  for  her,  and  that  God  had  sent  her  aid 
in  answer  to  that  prayer ;  but  she  did  not  like  to 
say  so.  She  was  not  used  to  expressing  rciigious 
feeling,  though,  having  been  religiously  brought  up, 
she  had  it. 

"  God  bless  her,  whoever  she  is,"  was  her  reply. 

Yes,  God  bless  her,  who  would  go  herself  to 
look  up  the  suffering.  How  those  grapes  cooled 
the  parched  lips  of  that  dying  girl !  and  that  cup  of 
tea,  —  how  much  it  comforted  and  strengthened 
the  worn  out  mother. 

For  some  days  after  this,  Susan  gradually  failed. 
The  neighbors  who  helped  her  mother  at  night 
were  the  first  to  notice  the  change.  Her  mother 
felt  that  she  must  die,  but  still  regarded  it  as  a 
distant  thing. 

One  Monday  night  it  was  her  turn  to  watch. 
From  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  late  in  the 
day,  she  had  been  over  her  wash-tub ;  for  her  work 
had  very  much  increased  since  that  mysterious 
visit.  She  sat  before  the  stove,  thinking  she  might 
catch  short  naps  in  her  cnair,  when  Susan  did  not 
need  anything.  An  old  comforter  had  been  hung 
before  the  bed,  through  the  day,  in  order  to  keep 
aff  the  steam  as  much  as  possible.  She  did  not 
ake  it  down,  for  the  room  was  a  little  chilly. 


THE    NIGHT   AFTER    CHRISTMAS.  337 

"Here's  your  drink  and  your  grapes,  Susan," 
eaid  she  ;  "  if  I  should  have  a  nap  and  not  wake 
when  you  want  your  drops,  you  must  call  me." 

"Well,"  said  her  child  faintly,  opening  her 
very  large  dark  eyes  and  fixing  them  upon  her 
mother  ;  "  go  to  sleep  and  I  '11  call." 

"  How  much  she  looks  as  her  father  did  afore 
he  died  ! "  thought  her  mother ;  "  she  reminds  me 
of  him  every  minute." 

The  night  wore  away.  The  tired  washer- 
woman sank  from  her  chair  in  a  deep  sleep,  and 
lay  on  the  bare  floor.  When  she  awoke  she  felt 
quite  stiff;  the  fire  was  out  and  the  room  was  very 
cold.  She  pinned  back  the  curtain  to  let  in  the 
grey  light  of  morning,  and  then  went  hastily  to  the 
bed.  Susan  lay  on  her  side,  her  face  buried  in  the 
pillows — one  hand  was  stretched  out  as  if  reaching 
for  grapes.  Her  mother  spoke  to  her  —  spoke 
again  —  touched  her  arm  —  shook  her  gently  — 
she  gave  no  sign  ! 

The  lady  and  child,  of  whom  we  have  already 
had  a  glimpse  through  a  window,  were  sitting  in 
their  cheerful  dining-room  on  the  evening  of  the 
day  on  which  Susan  died.  The  door-bell  rang  ;  it 
was  Susan's  mother  who  rang  it. 

u  Can  I  see  the  lady  of  the  house  ?  " 

u  Well,  I  believe  she  is  very  much  engaged 

now,"  said  John. 

29 


338  THE    NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,  very  much,"  said  the  woman, 
stepping  into  the  entry. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  the  sweet  face 
of  the  little  girl  peeped  out. 

"  Yes,  mamma  is  here,  come  in." 

"  Wipe  your  feet,  then,"  said  John. 

"  How  do  you  do,"  said  the  lady  kindly,  as  she 
entered.  "  It  is  a  very  cold  night,  —  you  look  cold, 
—  come  to  the  fire ;  Kitty,  dear,  bring  a  chair. 
Sit  down,  will  you?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  said  the  woman,  "  for  I 
am  'most  beat  out." 

"  Have  you  walked  far  ?  " 

"  From  the  South  End,  ma'am." 

"  It  is  cold,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Very  cold,  ma'am,  but  it  was  colder  one  night, 
the  night  arter  Christmas,  if  you  remember  it. 
That 's  the  time  I  want  to  tell  you  about.  You  see 
I  had  one  daughter,  about  sixteen.  My  husband 
has  been  dead  these  many  years,  and  my  daughter 
took  his  consumption,  I  suppose :  she  was  very 
sick.  I  managed  to  keep  soul  and  body  together 
by  taking  in  washing ;  but  about  Christmas,  in 
that  cold  snap,  my  coal  gin  out,  and  my  rent-bill 
came  in,  and  my  washing  fell  off,  and  I  was  hard 
put  to  't.  I  could  n't  stand  it  very  well,  to  see 
my  poor  sick  girl  a'  lying  there  without  anything 
to  or>nifort  her  aching  body.  I  was  clear  down, 


THE   NIGHT   AFTER    CHRISTMAS.  339 

and  says  a  neighbor  to  me,  says  she,  '  why  do  n't 
you  go  to  some  of  the  great  folk  in  Beacon  street, 
who  roll  in  gold  and  live  in  great  houses,  and  you 
could  ask  for  a  little  something  which  they  throw 
away,  and  it  would  make  you  both  comfortable.' 
Now,  as  I  told  you,  ma'am,  I  never  begged  in  all 
my  life ;  but  it  came  tough  to  see  my  poor  one  a' 
lying  there  with  nothing  to  comfort  her,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  it.  So  I  came  up  here.  It 
was  a  bitter  night.  I  walked  by  these  big  houses, 
and  I  looked  up  first  to  one  and  then  to  another, 
but  I  had  n't  the  heart  to  go  in.  Pretty  soon,  close 
to  here,  I  saw  a  pretty  young  girl,  I  should  think  she 
was  just  about  as  old  as  my  Susan,  I  saw  her  come 
to  the  window  and  draw  the  shades.  Think 's  I, 
if  I  must  beg,  I  'd  rather  beg  of  that  young  girl's 
mother ;  she  will  be  the  most  likely  to  feel  for  me ; 
so  I  went  into  the  kitchen  and  sent  for  her.  The 
servants  were  cross,  but  it  was  n't  that  I  minded, 
but  it  was  the  lady  herself;  for  when  she  came 
down  she  told  me  I  was  a  beggar,  and  I  might  go 
to  work ;  and  as  I  shut  the  kitchen  door  I  heard 
her  say,  how  mad  I  was.  I  do  n't  know  but  I  was 
mad,  I  was  clean  cut  up,  some  how  ;  I  suppose  it 
was  this  and  coming  out  of  a  hot  room  into  such 
cold,  made  me  faint  like ;  so  I  sat  down  on  your 
steps  a  minute,  to  get  over  it.  I  looked  into  that 
window,  ma'am,  over  the  screen.  You  had  just 


340  THE    NIGHT    AFTER    CHRISTMAS. 

such  a  bright  fire  as  that,  and  sat  where  you  do 
now,  and  your  little  girl  on  the  floor  by  you,  with 
a  plenty  of  playthings.  How  comfortable  you 
looked  !  Then  says  I  to  myself:  'You  rich  and 
hard-hearted,  may  I  die  in  the  streets,  before  I  ever 
beg  at  your  doors  again  ! '  Just  then  you  pointed 
up  to  that  clock,  and  what  did  the  child  do  but 
come  and  kneel  down  and  fold  her  little  hands  and 
pray.  God  bless  her.  I  do  believe  she  prayed 
for  me ;  seemed  to  me  I  heard  her.  My  anger 
went  away,  and  I  stood  stock-still  on  the  steps,  a' 
crying  like  a  baby ;  for  my  mother  used  to  make 
me  pray  once  to  her. 

"  But,  to  make  my  long  story  short,  I  was  a' 
coming  in,  but  she  went  to  bed  and  I  felt  afraid  to 
when  you  were  alone;  so  I  went  away  home. 
And  what  do  you  think,  ma'am  ?  why  that  very 
night  God  sent  somebody  to  help  us,  and  I  could  n't 
help  the  feeling  that  it  was  because  that  child 
prayed  for  us ;  for  I  never  have  found  out  who  it 
came  from,  and  I  do  n't  know  to  this  day,  so  I  can- 
not go  to  her,  but  we  were  helped  in  a  good  many 
ways,  and  got  along  nicely  till  now.  Now  my 
poor  girl  is  dead.  I  found  her  dead  this  mornijig. 
What  I  determined  I  never  would  do  to  keep  her 
alive,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  do,  —  come 
once  more  a-begging,  that  I  may  give  her  a  de- 
cent burying." 


THE   NIGHT   AFTER    CHRISTMAS.  341 

Kitty  and  her  mother  were  both  in  tears,  and 
Kitty  took  a  sparkling  purse  from  her  pocket  and 
whispered  eagerly  to  her  mother. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  you  may." 

"  Ah  !  my  little  dear,"  said  the  poor  woman  as 
the  child  approached  her, "  you  were  playing  with 
that  very  purse  that  night.  I  saw  it  shining  on 
the  floor." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kitty,  "  so  I  was ;  papa  gave  it  to 
me  Christmas  day ;  and  this  money,  too,  and  you 
shall  have  the  money,  I  do  n't  want  it :  here,  take 
it,  I  do  n't  want  it." 

It  was  a  five-dollar  piece.  The  widow  hesitated  ; 
she  felt  that  it  was  too  much. 

"  Take  it,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  expend  it  on 
yourself;  I  will  see  to  the  funeral  expenses. 
Where  would  you  like  to  have  your  child  buried  ?" 

"  Her  father  lies  in  the  burying-yard  in  our  na- 
tive town,"  said  the  woman,  after  some  hesitation ; 
"  it  is  about  thirty  miles  up  country." 

"  On  the  rail-road  ?  "  inquired  the  lady. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  would  like,  then,  to  take  your  child  there?" 

"It  would  be  a  great  comfort,"  said  the  widow, 
"  but  I  suppose  it  would  cost  too  much,  and  per- 
haps it  is  n't  much  matter  where  these  bodies  lie  j 
yet  it  would  be  a  great  comfort ;  if  I  could  get  there 
myself,  I  would  stay.  I  might  earn  a  little  among 


342  THE   NIGHT   AFTER   CHRISTMAS. 

them  that  know  me.  It  wont  be  very  long,  I  am 
a-thinking,  that  I  shall  want  anything,  and  it  would 
be  a  comfort  to  feel  that  I  could  be  buried  by  them 
both." 

"  I  will  come  to-morrow  morning  early,  and  see 
you  myself,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  have  these  ar- 
rangements made.  You  must  have  some  supper 
before  you  go.  Kitty,  dear,  touch  the  bell. 
John,  will  you  tell  Bridget  to  give  this  woman 
some  supper,  and  send  a  carriage  here,  John,  to 
have  her  taken  home.  She  looks  quite  too  much 
worn  out  to  walk.  Yes,  Kitty,  you  may  go  and 
show  her  the  way,  and  pour  out  her  tea,  if  you 
wish  to." 

The  poor  woman  could  not  speak ;  she  tried  to, 
but  only  her  lip  quivered,  her  heart  was  too  full 
for  words ;  so  placing  her  hand  in  Kitty's,  she 
went  silently  out.  Dear  little  Kitty !  how  much 
good  she  had  been  the  means  of  doing.  O,  teach 
your  little  ones  to  pray  and  to  pray  for  the  poor. 
God  loves  their  simple  prayers,  we  are  assured, 
and  will  answer  them,  though  we  may  never  know 
when  or  where. 


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